Liar, Liar
by in between nights
Summary: And none of them are perfect, they've got bitter friendships and burning secrets, all these little lies to tell / collection of oneshots, various pairings including requests.
1. Liar Liar - CedricMarietta

**Liar, Liar**

Marietta/Cedric

Warnings: kind of dark, sexual references, death, alcohol, swear words

Music: _Time is Running Out_, Muse

* * *

"I love you." he whispers in her ear. "I love you, I love you, I love you."

A thousand little _lies_.

* * *

She's liked him since the start of first year, since Cho pointed out that cute Hufflepuff in the corner, the popular one, (like Cho, always, _always_ like Cho) the one who would never in a million starlit years be interested in _Marietta_ (she doesn't say it, but Marrietta can tell, that's what they all think)

Silly little airhead Marietta, who reads all the Witch Weekly magazines and paints her nails bright pink because she just _loves_ the colour, (even though being girly is so not in right now) who'll never get a boyfriend with those big horse-teeth, who is the anomaly for Ravenclaw (because how'd she get in there when she's so _dumb_?)

Because that's what it all revolves around, isn't it? Cho is the one who got the chaser position in second year, (even though Marietta has wanted it since first) Cho who has all of the friends, (who she likes to ditch her for at every single opportunity) _Cho_ who makes Harry-fucking-Potter fall in _love_ with her.

It's also _Cho_ that Cedric asks to be his girlfriend.

(and it breaks Marietta's tiny-fucking-heart)

* * *

He comes so close to the flames in the first task. So close, so close that he burns. His _face_ burns and Marietta - she is scared shitless. Doesn't cry. Cho does - even though he's immediately fixed afterwards.

Cho kisses him then, and maybe Marietta feels like crying at that.

Doesn't though. She never cries. It's her defining trait. How robotic, how _devoid_ of human emotion she is.

Everyone sees it. Cedric does too, probably.

Is that why he doesn't like her?

* * *

She doesn't mean it to happen. They're both drunk, at the celebration party for his first task (though really, they all know that everyone is talking about Harry Potter at this point) and she really, _really_ doesn't mean it but Cho (and everyone else) has long-since gone to bed -

And it happens.

On the Hufflepuff Common Room sofa, (god, could she be any more of a slut?) dog-eared and messy, not at all how she imagined it (though it's always been _him_ she's imagined it with) but she's such a stupid skank that she clings onto it.

Clings onto those fake, fake words. Thinks they're real.

Which is the story of how Marietta Edgecombe lost her virginity to Cedric Diggory, her best friend's boyfriend.

* * *

He promises to break up with her, of course (pants on fire). '_After what happened with you, how could I not?' _(very, very easily, as it turns out)

'_It wasn't even that good_!' she feels like screaming back at him, though that doesn't explain those goddamn butterflies that keep swimming around every time she sees him, every time she sees him with Cho, who is supposed to be her best friend, yet they haven't spoken in _days_ (out of guilt, mostly, on her part).

But when they do speak, she ends up feeling a hell of a lot more ashamed, after Cho spends hours (quite literally) just going on about how _nice_ he is, about that award-winning smile (the one Marietta knows all too well).

'_Soon_,' he tells her. '_We'll be together_.'

Yet they go, him and Cho (always, _always_ him and Cho) to the Yule Ball and she's stuck without a date, (she counted on _him_ taking her) sitting in the corner with Harry Potter (who is so _clearly_ hung up over her best friend) and Ron Weasley (who is so _clearly_ hung over Hermione Granger) watching _them_, talking, laughing, _kissing_.

It makes her sick - she throws up after the song ends - to the stomach.

* * *

It's the second task that plants the nail in the coffin, once and for all. 'The most important thing' - well, it had to be _Cho_, didn't it? While Marietta is second best _again_ \- (not just to Cedric) waiting for him to show up, emerge victorious (as she knows he will), with his _prize_ (and the sad thing is, she just knows Cho won't mind being objectified like that).

Tick. Tock. Time's almost up. (more, so much more than she knows)

Ignoring how totally, utterly _cute_ his hair looks when it's wet (that sort of tousled, rugged effect that just makes her sigh) and the fact that her only friend could die, some small, detached part of her brain really, really hopes he _drowns_.

* * *

Then comes the final task.

The one where he returns in a body-bag (not really, of course, but she says it for emphasis).

Cho, beautiful, ignorant little Cho, screams and cries and hugs the corpse (which Marietta doesn't point out is actually kind of creepy) until she has to be physically peeled away from it, spends days mourning his death, nights muttering his name (_you didn't even have sex_, Marietta feels like saying - she's not very good at comfort)

No tears fall from her face. She doesn't cry, _everyone_ knows that. Even Cedric - '_do you realise how much of a heartless bitch you are, Marietta Edgecombe_?'

That was before. Just..._before_.

In fact, and she knows it's selfish and completely sadistic of her -

_She's actually kind of relieved_.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter, or the Great Gatsby, (see if you can find the reference) Time is Running Out or this cover image.

**A/N**: Wow this was way darker than I expected it to turn out (my emotions just got the better of me I guess). I think it's original though, I've never really read anything portraying Marietta like this before.

Any requests/reviews would be good, thanks!


	2. Pleasure Has No Soul - BellaBarty

**Pleasure Has No Soul**

Bellatrix/Barty

Warnings: angst, swear-words, death, pain, sexual references

* * *

His dreams are of her.

Always, _always_ of her, the woman with the dark eyelashes that frame the unruly grey eyes that stare into his black, _black_ soul, almost as black as her own.

Those lips, the ones he kissed (down by the willow tree, near the lake) when he was barely fifteen and she was nearing twenty-seven, engaged to a man that was not himself, no matter how desperately he wished for it.

Masochist, that's what he decides he just be, for when she raises her wand against him and whispers that tiny word (crucio, crucio, _crucio_), he feels no pain, only pleasure, only, only _her_. _Bellatrix_.

He utters the very _word_ with _reverence_, like she does with their master, the master he comes to see as she does, a thing of glory, power beyond little Barty Crouch Junior's wildest dreams.

Before, long, _long_, before he met her, he was a silly, stupid boy with foolish ambitions. Now, in his eyes at least, he is _strong_, brimming with potential (that what she tells him once, and he feels like engraving it into his heart), _capability_. What he doesn't realise is that he is the same childish boy, only with bigger, darker fantasies this time around.

Even her smile, that rare one he barely ever gets to see, enthrals him, sends him toppling over the edge, because his love (if, if it can be called that, it is more of _lust_) is like a cliff that he is just waiting to _jump_ from.

Little Barty Jr (except he is not that, not a child, any longer) has fallen for the woman with the starless heart and it feels like a bullet through his own. Because she is married, and he is not good enough for anyone, not his father, not Bellatrix Lestrange, not even himself.

Love, love to Bellatrix is a weakness, something to be looked upon in disgust, shame and that is why she just never know he loves her. He thinks she suspects, uses it against him, after all with a fluttering of the eyelashes and a pouting of the lips he does anything she wants and he thinks she does, she knows that, but she can never, ever know the true extent of his feelings for her.

After all, he is just a boy and she is a woman, pure and fine, and proud, so utterly divine in her ways it makes him want to cry, weep for this beautiful, fiery demon who both intimidates and excites his feeble heart.

Then their lord, their indestructible, infallible dark lord fails at the hands of a child and she, Bellatrix is furious, furious at him, at the world, at Harry Potter, at the Longbottoms. She convinces him, that Alice and Frank need to pay for their actions (some small part of him argues they are people, innocent people who did nothing wrong) and he does what he does best, sits there and nods his head, while staring at those perfectly red lips, the ones he kissed barely three years ago.

Run, run away little Barty Crouch Junior because Bellatrix Lestrange will be the death of you, she's already ripping you apart, tearing your life to shreds and not caring one small piece about it.

Irreversible brain damage, that's what they did, he did, to Frank and Alice Longbottom, tortured them so badly they forgot who they were, forgot who their son, that chubby, guiltless child was. That's what they do, him and Bellatrix, that's what she does, ruins lives and never cares about it, and now his is ruined too (but does she care?), Azkaban, for the both of them, where he thinks that he maybe belongs (after all, he is a criminal now, and a criminal for trusting her)

\- He knows that he should never have believed in the woman with the dark eyes and the black, _black_ soul.

* * *

All the repeating words are just my way of trying to capture his insanity.

I don't own Harry Potter

Review/request please! I will write _any pairing, _no matter how rare. Unless it's an inanimate object and a human being. Yeah, I don't think I'll write that.

Virtual hugs to:

**Nobody** \- Really? You thought she was a bitch? I kinda thought the villain was Cedric - but hey, reader interpretation is a very good thing. Otherwise, thanks so much for the lovely review and the 5/5.

**sexymauders** \- thanks for enjoying and yes, the Great Gatsby reference is the beautiful little fools thing, well done!

**Intes1ty** \- thanks!

**Teleramdude** \- yeah, a lot of my stuff is like that lol.


	3. Storm and Hurricane - BlaiseParvati

Storm and Hurricane

Blaise/Parvati

Warnings: some mature content, swear words

Music: Explosions, Ellie Goulding

* * *

It starts with a wink. A flirtatious one, sent to that Slytherin boy in the corner, the one who is friends with Draco Malfoy. Secretly, you had a crush on Draco in first year, but when you saw what he did, no, _does_ to Harry, you were put off by those Slytherin boys (for the time being).

It's a saying your mother taught you, and Padma, when you were little, after a fight with your father, looking wistfully out of the window, she said that bad boys will always break your heart. But he, _Blaise_, is different, you hope, he is _special_.

It escalates into kissing, rash, heated snogging in empty classrooms late at night. You know it will never work out, he is just using you because you are there, and you are willing, but you dare to dream. You are complete opposites, you think to yourself, as he drags his hands through your hair, while furiously kissing your neck.

That little thought goes away soon enough.

He doesn't believe in love. He told you that the first time you kissed. Not apologetic, not sorry, but he said it in that usual blunt manner, cold, uncaring. Even his touch is icy, while yours is warm, warm, _burning_.

You believe passionately in love. You believe in hearts and flowers and nights by the fireplace, snuggled against each other, in Leonardo DiCaprio and Mariah Carey.

You get none of that with Blaise, (although you both have a striking resemblance to Romeo and Juliet) but, by then, you don't particularly care.

Sometimes, occasionally, you think you might love him. His love is stinging, hurting, _addicting_ but it can't keep you from smiling, and whispering _Parvati_ _Zabini_ into your pillow at night.

Not that you'll ever get married, the two of you. Blaise finds the whole institution dreadfully meaningless and cliche.

You like to smile. It's nice, it feels nice, to grin and beam at people, to throw your head back in the air and laugh at something funny. But Blaise, you've seen him smile, what, _twice_? That small, thin upturning of the lips when he sees you in the classroom, waiting for him, as he rakes his eyes hungrily over your body doesn't count, you decide.

If Blaise laughed, you'd need convincing that the fabric of the universe hadn't been ripped apart, shattered into a million pieces, like your heart when he isn't around.

Stars. You love them. You love astronomy, astronomy and divination, staring at the stars, lost in that city of twinkling lights swept up in the blue of the sky. When you meet at the astronomy tower, you point out the stars to Blaise. He makes some usual sarcastic comment, then proceeds with kissing you, like he always does.

You hate to read. Reading is boring, boring, when you could be doing something, anything outside, enjoying nature, drinking in the bright, glowing sun. Blaise loves to read, you know that, from the way he refuses to meet in the library (it is like his church, his sacred temple),the way he is constantly quoting Shakespeare, the way, that when you stare into his eyes, there is a glassy, poetic mist to them. He reads muggle books, even though his mother is one of those Purebloods, the ones that prohibits any muggle activity whatsoever and would probably kill him if she found out.

Sometimes you wonder what would happen if she met you.

He reads Shakespeare and Dickens, and plenty of others you can't name for the life of you, but you remember his words, the words he has read from his books, the words he says to you. He calls you his 'Lady of Shalott,' and you whisper back 'I am half-sick of shadows'.

Blaise likes the dark. It's half of the reason you meet up at night, stay up until 2.00 am. Sometimes, you sit there in the creeping blackness, before his lust takes over and you end up in his bed again, and again, and again. He likes routine, organisation, while you are impulsive, reckless, _out of control_. Occasionally he murmurs that he should have been in Gryffindor, and you should have been in Slytherin, but you know that it isn't true.

He's arrogant, and you think it comes off the most around you, he likes to whisper things in your ear about himself, things that you hardly believe are true, but probably are, knowing Blaise Zabini.

He smells like butternut squash soup, you say decidedly, one night. He tells you that you smell like Juniper berries, bitter and spicy. You laugh and tell him to not be so articulate, so elegant with his words and he says he can't help it, that you're just too beautiful. _Smooth bastard_, you whisper, and he gives a derisive snort in reply.

He's beautiful too, in his own kind of fucked-up way, with his high cheekbones and his dark lashes that cover his misty eyes, the ones that dance with shadows when he is around you.

He is a storm, and you are a hurricane and that's what it comes down to. Even in seventh year, you refuse to let him go, refuse to accept that he is dark, that he is fighting for the wrong side, while you are fighting for Harry, for Dumbledore, for good.

You spend the night with him before his trial. The night is like all the others, trembling hands, lipstick-stained sheets and long since-discarded clothes. You wake up late in the morning, noon, maybe, and he is gone.

You don't care.

You know that this time, he'll come back.

* * *

I don't own:

Harry Potter (belongs to JKR)

Shakespeare

Charles Dickens

The Lady Of Shalott (Alfred Tennyson)

Mariah Carey

Leonardo DiCaprio

Explosions, by Ellie Goulding

Any reviews/requests are appreciated!


	4. Scary - CygnusBellatrix (platonic)

Scary

CygnusBellatrix (platonic)

Warnings: death, Azkaban, swear words

* * *

From time to time, his daughter scares him.

She is - as he has often stated - his favourite, (a new position for her, previously held by Andromeda) at the very least in choice of marriage.

For she had not run off with a dirty Mudblood, (brought shame on all the family) disgraced their name with that demon-child, (Nymphadora, or some new-age bullshit as such) nor had she married a coward - Lucius Malfoy, (he had never quite liked the fellow) yet she had chosen wealthy, (if simple-minded) pureblooded Rodolphus Lestrange, whose money had supplied the Blacks with golden ashtrays and new silk bed sheets.

But what he likes about Bellatrix is her spirit - her ability to stay, never back down in the cause for justice - freeing the world from the filthy-blooded, an ambition surely they can all aspire to.

Yet now - now, she seems to have taken it too far.

Got herself landed in Azkaban, for screwing with some blood-traitor's minds, for being one of _His_ Death Eaters - one of these days, that passion of hers is going to get herself killed, Cygnus thinks to himself quietly.

That's what she used to be. Quiet. Indifferent to the Cause and the Fight for Pureblood supremacy - rather like him, in fact. If anything, they had thought Bellatrix to be the sort to run off with a Blood-Traitor, not scornful, arrogant Andromeda (who had naturally, been the family pet).

Her fourth year had changed her, though, (for she came home that summer with a violent streak and a jealous nature...with a voice) it had changed her in ways she never divulged to anybody, but they had all agreed were for the best.

Well, maybe they weren't.

Not that he doesn't support the Cause of course - but to sacrifice himself over it, no, he would never dream of it.

That's always been the difference between the two - her blazing, burning energy (inherited from her mother, most definitely) compared to his lazy, relaxed soul.

Never one to take things too far, to try too hard for anything - let alone someone not himself.

Now the Dark Lord had been and gone and fallen (as Cygnus had always suspected he would) and she was stuck, with no Dark-Knight to save her, no power from anyone any more, trapped with no way out.

The person he felt most sorry for was that lackey of hers - the young one, with the adoring eyes and Ministry-Father, who looked (looks, he corrects himself, they aren't dead - not yet) upon her with desire.

Except Bellatrix had never been taught, never known how to _love_, so she had spurned his advances, already perfectly-happy in a business arrangement, worth just over a thousand galleons (yes, it _had_ been a good idea) so cruelly _rejected_ young Barty Crouch.

If he could feel empathy, he would for the young fellow, who had gained the same fate as her - imprisonment for life, locked away until the end of his days, soul being sucked out minute by minute.

He shudders at the thought.

For that will be his daughter - except he's not worried for her - she'll get through it, kicking and screaming, he knows she will, telling the Dementors to 'fuck off' and other such actions that had gained her a slap at home.

Cygnus shakes his head silently as they lead his daughter out, followed by the Dementors and _wonders_...

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter

**A/N**: So...?

Any thoughts? Reviews? Requests? All would be very greatly appreciated.


	5. Droobles - FrankAlice

Droobles

Frank/Alice

Warnings: swear words, sexual references,

* * *

She was in there. Alice. He would have known that voice anywhere, even though he had never heard it make that strangled little noise before.

It shocked him, made him terrified, angry, even though he had only gotten up to place his homework on Flitwick's desk before the Professor got there. He pushed open the door slightly to see her, huddled up in the corner, her hair splayed all around her and her eyes wet with tears.

"Go away!" came the yell, but her voice was strained and she seemed more to be pleading with him.

"Why?"

"You're friends with him." The name was spat out with loathing that Frank had never heard before.

"Chris? We haven't been friends since last year when...wait, Alice, did he _do_ anything to you?"

"We broke up on the train." was the muffled response.

Frank was torn between punching something again and leaping for joy.

"That bastard." he muttered, before his expression softened. "He's done this to a billion other girls Alice, don't worry, you're well shot of him."

"This was different!"

"Different how?"

Alice sobbed some more, before spitting on the ground in fury and disgust. "We slept together, alright? And then he brags to his friends about how he 'scored' before moving on to some slutty Ravenclaw and dumping me."

Anger pulsed through Frank's veins. How dare he? How dare he take away the girl his best friend loved, use her and then humiliate her in front of his pathetic new friends?

"We'll I hope we're not interrupting anything." A new voice said. Frank's fists clenched as he recognised the emerald-eyes and slick-back blonde hair, dragging some giggling girl (tart, Frank thought disgustedly) behind him.

Both their faces went ashen when they saw the pair, huddled together in the corner - her obviously in a horrible state, hair wild and bushy, glasses askew, eyes red and puffy.

"Oh, uh, Alice." Chris said uncomfortably, finally realising

"Get out." Frank and Alice hissed together, spitting with rage.

"Alice, oh god, I'm so, so sorry." Frank edged slightly closer to her. "Take it," he whispered softly, pushing the blue packet towards her, "It's not that much help, but I thought it might improve it...just, just a little bit."

"Droobles." She said, mostly to herself. To Frank's surprise, she swept him into a hug. He allowed himself to breathe into her scent; oranges, rain and of course, Droobles, while he stared into those gorgeous periwinkle eyes, occasionally letting his own drift back down to those soft, pink pouty lips.

Alice tipped her head up to the side as she gazed upon Frank.

Frank, who she had barely even noticed before, that sweet, albeit geeky boy who had taken her to see the Rocky Horror Picture Show with Kris (later Frank wondered if this was how her and Kris had got together, a perfect memory spoiled by the shock that came after it), the boy who loved to play on his guitar (even though he wasn't very good).

Frank, the one with the eager eyes that seemed to twinkle so fondly when she was around and the shapely nose that had been broken in fourth year (protecting her, oddly enough.)

She felt herself leaning slightly, but jumped back when she realised, a tingling in her spine.

"Thanks for the Droobles. " She said, wiping away her eyes one last time as she left the room, leaving a very disappointed Frank Longbottom in her wake.

* * *

"I thought you had a date?" Alice asked as she slid into Frank Longbottom's booth. Alice had been apprehensive about coming to the Hogs Head on her own, so she was extremely glad to see a familiar face in there.

Frank laughed bitterly, "Ditched me for Kris, ironically enough."

Alice pulled a face. "He's not dating that bitch Brown anymore then?"

"Well," Frank said, "Judging by that, " here he pointed to Kris and a brunette appearing to suck each other's faces off, "I'd say that they're over. "

"I'd say the bastards cheating on her."

"I'll bet you a galleon on it. We'll probably know by the end of the week with all the loudmouths around Hogwarts."

"I'll bet you another one that when they do break up it will be so damn hilarious, I'll snort out my Droobles. "

"Ah, but that's only if they aren't broken up already."

Alice stuck out her tongue at him, but with a friendly wink to go along with it.

"You wanna go to Honeydukes? I'm sorry, but I can't stand to watch babies being made any longer." Frank asked and Alice, after chuckling a bit, stood up and exited the bar with him.

"Don't you just love the snow?" Alice breathed, a flush of excitement spreading on her face.

"No...it's really, _really_ cold actually." Frank said, tugging at her hand to pull her towards Honeydukes.

Alice couldn't shake the emotion of how...nice it felt.

"So...umm...any plans for Christmas?" She asked Frank, playing with a strand of her hair.

"Stay home, wear mums knitted jumpers...you?"

"Well, there's this movie on on the 17th...it's called King Kong and um, I was maybe wondering if you wanted to see it?" said Alice, shuffling her feet on the floor nervously. Frank looked taken aback, so Alice changed her words quickly. "I mean, you don't have to, I'm not really that pretty. Although that shouldn't really matter that much, I don't think you're that sort of bloke and I'll probably just eat Droobles the whole way through it and ruin it." she squeaked.

"Alice, " Frank cut her off with a kiss on the cheek, "I'd absolutely love to go with you."

* * *

She had her arms wrapped around his neck and he was trailing soft kisses down hers, their breaths intermingling.

"You wear way too much hair gel," she breathed out. Frank grinned and beaming down at her, he placed a kiss on her nose.

"And your breath smells like Droobles. So?" He kissed her again, this time on the mouth, only pulling away for oxygen.

"You blush way too easily."

"And you're just too damn attractive." Frank growled, hands wandering slightly. Alice went in for a kiss, then pulled out slightly.

"Broom closet?" She whispered.

"Broom closet." He agreed, dragging her down the corridor, her giggling as they went, before pushing the door to #36 open and pulling Alice inside.

"Well well Mr Longbottom, it seems that we meet again, " she said, laughing softly to herself.

"Just kiss me already, " he groaned, before grabbing her and pressing her lips to his, running his tongue along her bottom lip as she moaned into his mouth, her hands pressed up against his chest while his hands moved to her shirt, gently sneaking underneath it as she hastily undid the buttons of his.

"I missed you." Frank whispered against her hair.

"I miss you whenever you aren't around." she told him, swiftly capturing his lips with hers.

"I know it might be too soon, because we've been dating for just a couple of weeks, but Alice Marie Gamp, goddammit, I love you."

"I love you too."

"Really?" Frank said, eyes shining.

"Shut up and kiss me."

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter.

A/N: So, this is kind of...meh, but I hoped you like it anyway, **guest** and thanks (and a virtual hug) for reviewing/requesting. There was like, a whole 1500 other words, of how they met/how Chris and Alice got together but it was really, really shit so I deleted it.


	6. Cokeworth - JamesLily

Cokeworth

James/Lily

Warnings: swear words. Fluff. Kissing.

* * *

That..._Cokeworth_ smell (dust, and pollution, with a faint hint of urine and nicotine mixed in as well) invades his nostrils as he hurries along the dimly-lit path, constantly checking the small, torn scrap of parchment with the address: '78 Scarcroft Road' hastily scrawled on top, along with the words 'near Spinner's End' (of which he had no clue of the meaning).

He stops, inspects the fairly neatly-cut grass, (a contrast to the wild, untrimmed lawns the rest of the street displayed) squints at the door, which appears to have taken some damage, but that small number at the top is still quite legible, and strolls along the pathway.

And James Richard Potter, Pureblood, Gryffindor, Quidditch captain, handsome devil (his most-preferred label) knocks on the door.

He waits.

Until she appears, ginger (more of a _red_, really, he corrects himself) hair thrown loosely back into a lazy bun, baggy t-shirt and all, the typical Lily Evans 'I-don't-care' attire, or perhaps due to the fact he had arrived, quite out of the blue, on a Saturday afternoon in the middle of summer (although the weather didn't quite know it yet) at her house.

"Hey," she says cautiously, door still wide open, scratching the back of her neck (a _very_ nice neck it is, he notes). "I wasn't expecting you until next week."

"I came today." James replies, shuffling his feet awkwardly on her patio. "I missed you."

True, he had missed her, Sirius had called him out on it, (used some _very_ choice words to describe it) he had thought about her more often than not, about the last day of term, (which he would later classify as the greatest in his life) about all they had _done_ that day, and how for the first summer in his life, Lily Evans was his _girlfriend_.

The very word, even after six (or seven, he did forget) months, still tastes funny on his tongue, like Firewhisky, or that laugh-inducing potion Sirius had once slipped into his drink, (to get back at him for something - he never could quite remember _exactly_ what it was) like how he felt when he kissed her.

Which he had done, several times in fact.

She rolls her eyes - those meadow-green eyes he just so happens to _love_ \- but a smile still plays at her lips - which, if possible, he adores even more and stands to the side, allowing him to pass through to the living room.

* * *

He takes a tentative seat on the armchair near to the window, drawing the frayed purple curtains firmly shut, in an attempt to ignore the pouring rain outside (which he, no doubt, would have to suffer when he left).

"I misapparated." James tells her, squishing around until he is comfortably settled on it. "I had to walk for a while."

"You never were very good." Lily smirks, dropping a quick peck on his lips before turning around and bustling back to the kitchen. "Tea?"

"I'm fine." He fumbles around in his pocket before producing a crooked, slightly muddy flower and placing it on the coffee table in front of him. "I...er, bought you a rose. From a muggle man about a town away. I figured it would be more meaningful, than if I just conjured it."

"It's pretty," she says, tucking the flower behind her ear. "Thanks."

"Like someone else I could mention."

"Smooth bastard." She tips the remainder of the (slightly sour-smelling) carton of milk into the cup, before lifting it to her lips and taking a delicate sip.

"I _love_ it when you talk dirty to me."

Another roll of the eyes, (her signature move) before she sets down the mug. "How's Sirius?"

"Moving on." There is a long pause, neither of them wanting to discuss the topic any further - the subject of how Sirius got his heart shattered into pieces, (largely James' fault) the bittersweet conclusion still a relatively avoidable matter for both of them.

"What about Remus? And Peter?"

"It's been a week Lils," James says, lifting one eyebrow. "They're pretty much the same as always."

"I'm trapped _here_ aren't I?"

She lets out a deep sigh, taking another gulp of the tea before shuddering.

"Good?" James asks, a slightly amused smirk appearing on his face.

"Horrible. I don't even like the stuff. I just figured it's more mature than drinking _apple_ _juice_."

"Please. Lily, you're in the presence of one of the marauders. We don't like to use that word."

She gives a small giggle (even after six months of dating, the sound enthralls him) and takes the cup up to the worksurface, tipping the rest of the contents down the sink gently.

"How's employment going?"

Lily's light-hearted smile quickly vanishes. "It's surprising how few newspapers are willing to hire a Mud - "

"Don't - "

"blood," she finishes, and he winces at the word. "You pretend like it doesn't exist, James. I'm a prime target in this war. I can barely leave the bloody house, for god's sake!"

He slides his back against the chair, inching away from her, mostly unsure of what to say.

"I'm sorry." Lily takes his hand in hers, her gaze dropping to the ground as she tries to blink back the tears that are slowly forming. "I'm just a little stir crazy."

"It's fine." James hesitates, knowing she won't like what he's about to say. "My father...has some contacts in journalism. I'm sure that he could - "

"I don't want his help." She interrupts, dropping her hand to the coffee table and rubbing her thumb unconsciously around the oak. "I know that sounds rude - "

"It's okay."

"And I'm sorry, but I want to make it on my own merit. Not as James Potter's girlfriend. Have...have you told anyone else?"

"Nobody other than Sirius, Remus and Peter knows. And..._her_."

"You know that dating me puts you in danger, right?" Lily says, looking up at him sadly, emerald eyes slightly misty, lips pouted into a (almost contemplative) frown.

"Danger is my middle name."

She gives him a small, playful shove, grin beginning to return to her face. "I thought it was Richard?"

"That too." He leans forward, capturing her lips with his for a few, brief, wonderful moments. "I...you're amazing ," he whispers into the crook of her ear, cursing himself for not having the courage to say the words, but playing it off. "I don't care if I die. Life is but a dream with you in it, anyway."

"Poetic arse," she mutters, moving back into her chair, but the beam she gives him tells James that she doesn't mean it. "How's auror training?"

"Non-existent."

"Must you _always_ speak in riddles?"

He opens his mouth but she cuts in before he can speak. "Actually, don't answer that."

James chuckles, (the sound makes her slightly tingly inside) entwining her hand with his and giving her fingers a squeeze. "We don't start until September."

"Just like school."

"Urgh, Lils, it's been a week, can we not bring that place up?"

"You were the one who was all Mr. Popular," she teases, swinging their arms in rhythm a little. "I was that shy, nerdy girl in the corner."

"You were _my_ shy nerdy girl in the corner."

"Excuse me, _Potter_," she says, lips brushing against the stubble of his chin. "But I don't belong to _anyone_."

"You want to reconsider that?" He buries his nose in her sweet-smelling hair, (a lot like...lemons) gently, running his fingers through several strands of it at once.

"No." she pushes off of her seat and goes to join him on the armchair, straddling his lap. She pulls away the first three buttons of his shirt (rather aggressively, he appreciates) before sliding her arms around his neck -

"Did the doorbell just go?" James breathes out, unwinding her arms from him.

"Shit."

He taps her on the nose, a small smile appearing on his face. "Be good."

"You want to get it, or shall I?"

"Considering I'm half naked, I think it's your turn to get it."

"Three buttons, James." Lily untangles herself from the armchair (or, more specifically, his lap) and leaves the living room, blowing him a mock kiss as she goes. "Three buttons!"

He quickly redoes his top and smoothes down his his hair, attempting to make himself look at least _somewhat_ presentable, before she reenters with (oh joy) her sister.

"Alright, Petunia?" James offers, jumping up to shake her hand (which she does, with much distaste). "How's the husband? Still a - "

"_James_!" Lily interrupts, shooting him an I'm-annoyed-at-you-but-yes-he-_is_-a-prick (bastard was more the term he was going for) glance and showing Petunia to her seat on the edge of the sofa. "Apple Juice?"

"Tea, actually." She puts down her rain-soaked umbrella, giving James a quick look (mostly of disgust, but he thinks he sees some fear in there too).

"How are you?" Lily calls from the kitchen, switching the kettle on again.

"Fine." Petunia replies monotonously, inching away from the wand that lies on the coffee table.

"Oh, that's mine, sorry." He picks it up and puts it back in his pocket, mindful of the way she flinches when he goes near her. "Er...if you don't mind me being blunt, Petunia...why are you _here_?"

"_James_!" Lily reproaches yet again, clearly trying to contain her smile.

"I could ask the same of you," she sniffs, "I didn't realise you and my sister were still..._courting_."

"Courting? What is this, the 1800s?" James scoffs.

Both ignore him.

"We are." Lily affirms, kissing him lightly on the cheek to prove her point. "So, uh, why are you here?"

"The house." Petunia smooths down her skirt nervously. "My - Vernon and I are trying to start a family."

"Congratulations!" Her sister squeals, pulling her in for a (very awkward) hug.

"So?" James raises an eyebrow.

"We need a house." He rolls his eyes at the so-typically Petunia thing to do, not visit her sister for six months then show up, demanding her to sign over her _home. _

"Why...why can't you just pay for one?" Lily asks, wearing an expression of confusion (and her naivity makes James want to both hug her and slap Petunia at the same time).

"We can't afford a two bedroom just yet - Vernon recently lost his job, so - "

"He sent you over here to beg Lils to just give you this one." James finishes, the anger beginning to build up in his stomach.

"This is where I grew up." Petunia informs him coolly. "It's as much mine as hers."

"I think _her_ has a name." He takes a deep breath, telling himself not to snap. "Besides, it belongs to Lily. Your parents left it to her after they - "

"Very unfairly," Petunia hisses, beady eyes narrowing, lips pressed into a straight line. "They always did love you more."

"Petunia, they loved us equally." Lily tells her, gripping tighter onto James' hand.

"Ever since they found out you were a _freak_ \- "

James stands up, hand instantly flying to his back pocket before he stops himself. "Leave." He tells her through gritted teeth, glancing back at Lily, who gives a small nod in confirmation. "Get out."

She picks up her handbag, swinging it over her shoulder before practically flying out of the place, slamming the door behind her as she goes.

* * *

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault."

He strokes the ginger hair beneath him, sighing softly to himself as he does it. "I didn't mean to lose my temper."

"I know."

"I just - " he clenches his fists. "She shouldn't speak to you like that."

"It's not like people haven't done it before."

He thinks back to Snape and feels like punching something. Dirty, rotten _bastard_. "They shouldn't. You're...you're perfect Lils."

"Nobody's perfect," she says, nibbling lightly on the ends of her fingernails. "Least of all me."

James' arms encase her, swooping her in for a hug, which is how they sit, for several minutes, until, slowly enough, they fall asleep on the armchair as the afternoon sun begins to shine through the clouds again.

* * *

He glances at his watch (gold, his grandfather's) and nudges her lightly awake, informing her that '_he'd better get back to Sirius,' _picking up her umbrella ('_that's bloody mine_' Lily grumbles, mostly to herself) and swinging it over his shoulder.

"Bye," she says, curling up in a ball on the armchair and trying to get back to sleep.

"Where's my goodbye kiss?" James tugs at her hand and leads her to the door (with much reluctance on her part). "_Now_ you can say it."

"Good_bye," _she gives a half-scowl, half-laugh and kisses him on the cheek. "I'm going to slam the door in your face now, okay?"

"Okay." He waits for the action and smirks as he is greeted by the sound of a loud 'bang!' and her disappearing footsteps, striding back down the path and turning the corner, back to home, back to Sirius.

Without her.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter

**A/N**: Suggestions? Pairing requests?


	7. Million - TerenceParvati

Million

Terence/Parvati

Warnings: um, none, I don't even think I swore this time around, (unless you count damn) oh, and shirtless Slytherins

* * *

He's rather charming. (in that Slytherin sort of way)

You try and convince yourself that he's good - you've never seen him cheat at Quidditch (not like the rest of his house) but then, it's not an _exemplary_ way to judge moral character.

Not that he plays on a team - no, you remember - he got kicked off in second year, after Malfoy bought his way in, with those flashy new brooms that very almost showed up Harry Potter (if anything could).

You don't play either, you just get dragged along by Lavender to 'scope out the hotties' on the practice-pitch, because according to her, there is 'nothing sexier than shirtless, sweaty boys.'

Privately (at least after getting a look at _that_ chest) you agree.

There are a million reasons not to fancy Terence Higgs, but apparently your heart decided to ignore every one.

He's three years older, for a start.

You suppose your type is just rich, good-looking jackasses, because after all there was that Draco-faze in first year - something you really aren't proud to admit - and Terence...well, you've never seen him do anything _bad_, per se, but he's a Slytherin.

It's in his nature.

Just as it's clear that the both of you are not in the stars, not meant to be...but you can't help wondering -

Why your stomach does that backflip when you see him, why when he smiles you melt a little inside, why, why _why_?

It's like a wave, crashing against the shore, your heart when you see him - pounding and pounding and not stopping until that stupid cologne-y scent is completely out of your mind - which takes, for the record, about a gazillion hours.

And his eyes - _damn_ \- those pools of brown could kill you some-day, you just know it.

Yet you know, no matter how deep inside, that it's not going to happen. You might as well have a crush on a member of the Weird Sisters (who are coming to Hogwarts, apparently...!) because they're just as likely to take an interest in you.

Except that would be a hell of a lot creepier.

You're not going to end up in the arms of the boy with the brown eyes and the heart-stopping smile.

That's okay.

You'll still get that fairytale ending.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter.

Review/request guys...it's really simple.


	8. Fluorescent Adolescent - TedAndromeda

**Fluorescent Adolescent**

Ted/Andromeda

Warnings: swear words, sex (not graphic), really long

* * *

"Tonks," Andromeda says briskly, "And, hmmm...let's see," she squints "Gardener? Thirty points from Ravenclaw and Hufflepuff for indecency in a corridor after curfew."

She waits a few minutes for Gardener to leave the corridor before turning on Ted, who is leant against the wall, casually lighting a cigarette, which Andromeda takes from his hands, drops on the floor and stomps on, putting out the light.

"Another five from Ravenclaw." she says. "Tonks, this is the third time I've caught you out here with a girl this week. Do you want detention?"

Ted shrugs, a cheeky grin on his face.

Andromeda snorts in disgust. "You're a sick bastard." she tells him. "You take girls and use them, then dump them when they're past your sell-by date."

"Hey, Black, they all know that it's just a bit of fun."

"Gardener," she gestures the way the girl left,"Has a boyfriend."

"Who is, coincidentally, a dick."

Andromeda runs a frustrated hand through her hair.

"Look," he says. "I'm sorry for the whole she-has-a-boyfriend thing. I'll never snog someone who is romantically attached again."

"Can't you try not to snog anyone you don't plan on dating?"

"Well, I'll try Black." he says, "But my debonair ways and charming good looks often hinder me."

He throws her a wink, and she marches away from him, hoping he doesn't see the blush on her face.

"Interesting!" He calls after her, a mischievous twinkle in his eye.

"What?"

"That was my first conversation with a Pureblood who didn't bring up my blood status."

"Filthy mudblood." Andromeda sneers half-heartedly and turns the corner, leaving a still grinning Ted Tonks in her wake.

* * *

"I was aware," he says, eying her creamy-coloured legs appreciatively. "That prefects didn't do patrol in just a nightdress. Not that I'm complaining."

"Tonks," Andromeda sighs, "We are trying to discuss your snogging habits - which last week, you promised to stop!"

"No," Ted argues, "I promised to stop snogging girls with boyfriends."

"Why is it always that wall?" she asks curiously.

"Tradition?" he shrugs. "I received my first kiss against that wall. And about every girl in the school after that."

"Every girl?" Andromeda raises an eyebrow.

"Not every girl." he says, "Unless you'd like to take a go at it Black?"

He takes a step closer to her, staring her in the eye, holding her gaze for what seems like an eternity until she realises where she is.

"How dare you?" Andromeda sputter, a smattering of pink on her cheeks, "I am engaged!"

"Engaged?" It's his turn to be inquisitive. "To who?"

"Rabastan Lestrange." She says, a note of pride in her voice.

"Lestrange...Lestrange. Oh yeah, I know him. From what I've heard, he has quite a few girls of his own." He looks at Andromeda strangely. "And you're okay with it?"

"It's how Pureblood society works." she replies in a slightly strangled voice, walking down the corridor.

Ted jogs and easily catches up with her.

"So you're not allowed to cheat but he is? That's pretty sexist."

"Coming from the boy who snogs a different girl every night." Andromeda sniffs, wiping her nose with a sleeve. "Every one in the school?"

"Never been rejected, but it's not like I try and seduce people like your family." He pauses. "Though the blonde one is pretty fit."

"Narcissa would eat you alive." Andromeda tells him, giggling slightly. "And you got rejected just a few minutes ago."

He pauses, considering this. "True. Would you like to reconsider your decision? It would be a terrible shame to break my record."

"I'd rather not."

"Is it because I'm a mudblood?" Ted stares at her with those royal-blue eyes before she starts and stutters.

"I...don't know."

His eyes flicker back to her legs. "Have you ever tried fishnets?"

And she punches him in the shoulder as hard as she possibly can.

* * *

When she meets him next, he is without a female companion, but carrying a lighter, whistling on his way down the corridor.

"Should I be scared?" Andromeda calls out teasingly.

"Maybe." Ted replies solemnly. "There's going to be a pretty major crisis soon enough."

"What?"

"Professor Reaser's office going up in flames."

"You're a psychopath." she says, shaking her head in disbelief. "What the hell did Reaser do?"

"Said the reason I'm failing is because I'm muggleborn."

"You're failing Defence Against The Dark Arts?"

"Yes thank you Black, we can't all be Pureblood geniuses like you."

"Give me the lighter." Andromeda says, and he sulks for a minute before tossing it over to her, where she holds it up and examines it. "This might help you quit that smoking as well. Nasty habit."

"You're so boring, Black. "

"I'm sorry I don't try to set light to my Professor's office."

"You gotta live in the present, not the past. Tell me Black, have you ever tried Firewhisky?"

* * *

Andromeda can scarcely believe that she is sitting in the Room of Requirement, at 11:13 at night, with Ted Tonks (a muggleborn no less), hiccoughing and giggling and trying to keep the firewhisky down without vomiting all over the place (though she's sure he wouldn't care, he never does). Alcohol, she decides, is weird, but strangely comforting. A lot like Ted Tonks.

"Your turn." Ted says. "Ask me if I've ever..."

"Had a detention?" Andromeda finishes, looking at him before taking another sip of the strange liquid and shuddering.

"Had a detention? Of course I've had a fucking detention, who hasn't ever -" Ted stares at her, "You've never had detention?"

"No." Andromeda replies, blushing again.

"God, Purebloods are so screwed up." A sigh escapes from his lips. "Fine, so it's now my personal mission to get Andromeda Black a detention."

Silence falls between the, until he speaks up again, with a waggle of the eyebrows. "Have you ever done it?"

"Done what?"

"It."

"What?"

"Sex, Andromeda." Another sigh. "I'm presuming that's a no."

She nods her head.

"Wanna try?" He waggles his eyebrows yet again.

"You're a slag Ted Tonks."

"A slag?" Ted bursts out laughing again. "Boys can't be slags."

"That's misogynist." Andromeda retorts.

"I am impressed." Ted says, slurring slightly. "You use big words when you're drunk as well."

"How drunk are you?"

Ted makes a sloppy gesture with his hands. "About this...much."

"Come on Tonks." Andromeda sighs. "Let's get you to bed."

* * *

"Tell me about your sisters."

"Did you take this much interest in the girl you were snogging just now?"

"Nope." Ted replies, popping the p. "She wasn't as pretty as you Andromeda."

She feels her face tingling and stares straight ahead. "Bellatrix...used to be so...good."

"Are we talking about the same person here?" Ted snorts.

"Yes, sure, she wasn't exactly a muggle-lover but she wasn't really too keen on killing all of them either. Bella and I, we used to be best friends. I don't think she knew what lipstick was until fifth year. We used to do ballet together, like the good little Pureblood girls, and she defended me when the others picked on me because I couldn't do a pas de bourée."

"What changed?" Ted asks, biting back a comment about a pas de bourée.

Andromeda shrugs.

"Summer after her fifth year she came back and that old Bella was gone."

"Hey." He tentatively pats her on the arm, which at first she jumps at, but then relaxes and lets him. "What about Narcissa?"

"Narcissa was always more interested in nail varnish, earrings and boys than me. She wants glamour and glitz, I just want family, and people that care about me. Is that daft?"

"No. I'm glad you're not one of those girls."

"You mean every single girl you've ever dated?" The words are almost spiteful, he thinks, laden in angry sarcasm that he can't mistake for what he thinks it means.

"What about the person who's engaged to Rabastan Lestrange?"

Andromeda flushes. "I love him."

Whatever remnants of a heart Ted Tonks has start to slowly sink and shatter.

* * *

"Sex tips? Polishing up for Andromeda are we Lestrange? Or one of your other bits on the side?"

Ted plops himself beside the scowling boy, giving him a self-satisfied smirk. (but he feels so empty inside knowing that this dick has won.)

"You see, Gardener told me I was a better kisser. Which confuses me, because, you know, aren't I supposed to be inferior in every way possible?"

"Fuck you Tonks."

"Plenty of girls already do that for me."

"Filthy sluts." Rabastan snarls, struggling to keep calm.

"I bet you've shagged half of them Lestrange, you hypocrite. And I'm not engaged, like some people I could mention. But Andromeda's too classy to fuck you, isn't she?"

Ted almost misses the swinging fist before it hits the side of his face.

"Wow, Lestrange, picking the muggle way to fight. Doesn't that go against some kind of code?" Ted coughs out, wiping the blood from his nose with his sleeve.

He doesn't miss the second one before he blacks out.

* * *

Ted winces as her fingers fondle his cheek, her nails skimming lightly over the bruise.

"Does it hurt?" she whispers.

He bites his tongue from the remarks swimming around in his brain and instead gives a slight nod of his head, strangely revelling at her touch.

"I'm sorry." Andromeda tells him breathlessly, and something in his stomach churns.

"Don't get all sentimental on me now." Ted murmurs into her ear and she jumps back slightly, recoiling at his words.

"I like your necklace." He's trying to change the subject, but he honestly does love the way it sparkles against her. "Diamonds. Very Pureblood."

Andromeda scowls at him. "Narcissa got it for me, for Christmas. Which reminds me, I got you a present."

"It's not diamonds is it?"

"No." she scowls again. "Maybe I won't bother."

He's serious again. "I didn't mean it."

Not 'I'm sorry', because Ted Tonks doesn't apologise.

Andromeda tosses him a package, which he eagerly rips apart.

"Thanks for the scarf, Black. How'd you know I liked the Chudley Cannons?"

"Lucky guess." she shrugs.

(Ted can't bear to tell her he never has been, and will never be, interested in Quidditch.)

"I got you something as well." His palms sweat a little as he hands her his present, running his free hand through his blonde hair.

"Firewhisky?" she asks, as her lips quirk upwards.

"You still need to get that detention, Black." Ted throws her his trademark smirk while shoving his hands into his pockets.

"Oh? And how do you plan to do that?"

"I never got my vengeance on Reaser. And I figured it was about time I messed with that damn cat of hers."

"Where does firewhisky come into the equation?"

"To get you drunk enough to agree with what I'm about to say."

"We're not going to kill it are we?" Andromeda asks nervously.

"I'm not going to do anything. You are."

She meets his gaze anxiously, not dropping her eyes from his, those eyes she could see the world in, until he feels trapped, boxed in by this stupid, foolish feeling that he hates so goddamn much, that emotion he's not supposed to feel, the one she'll never feel for him.

This dumb, nauseating love that he has for Andromeda Black (Tonks, his mind corrects and he curses himself for it), turning and twisting his insides, his demented dreams of him and Andromeda as a couple that he can't tame, he's addicted to her like he is to nicotine, and he's not sure if he's falling in love or off of a cliff. This weird emotion makes him want to throw himself off of one.

Because they would never work, him and Andromeda Black, the stuck-up, cynical, sarcastic goody-two-shoes, bookworm prefect who he thinks is the best, most wonderful girl he's ever met, because of her family and that fucking bastard who doesn't even deserve to know her. They're two worlds apart and that makes all the difference.

Fuck, Ted thinks, is there a cure for this?

* * *

High heels, some detached part of his mind notices. She's wearing high heels, pink ones (kitten heels, he remembers), pink to match that long taffeta dress with a far-too-low-for-Ted's-own-good neckline, but right now he's supposed to be focusing on that glare of hers, the one that almost definitely means she's mad at him, and then she's grabbing his arm, pulling him out of the ballroom with such force he drops the plate of hors-d'ouvres he's supposed to be holding and drags him up what seems like a gazillion flights of stairs, pushes him into a bedroom, presumably hers, and slams the door shut.

Yep, she's mad at him.

"Well if you wanted me this badly, Andromeda, you should have said." Ted says lazily, casually leant across the ginormous bookshelf that stretches across her bedroom wall, painted a dull grey-white colour.

"What," she asks through gritted teeth, "the hell are you doing here?"

"Working as a waiter Andromeda. Food doesn't get there by magic you know."

"You do realise that if anybody here were to find out your blood status, they would kill you on the spot, Ted, it's not safe!"

"C'mon, I even bought a tuxedo for this, ditched the usual leather jacket. Have a laugh, Andromeda, I just wanted to see you over the holidays."

"Why?" Her eyes sparkle with tears as he struggles to comprehend the question, get out the words he's been meaning to for a long time.

"Look..." he sighs, "this is hard for me to say, because I'm Ted Tonks. I'm not a hero, I don't do the right thing, I'm just supposed to be this heartless, insensitive dick with no feelings. I'm not meant to give a toss about anything."

"But," he chokes out. "Maybe I do."

He's not crying, because Ted Tonks doesn't cry, Ted Tonks never gets upset like this, especially over a girl. "About you."

The tears are falling fast now, slipping down her porcelain cheeks, and this is the part where they're supposed to embrace, hug, kiss (and if he's lucky, shag) but she's backing away from him, with a hint of what he thinks is fear in her eyes.

And his whole world comes crashing, tumbling down before him.

"I'm engaged." she croaks out and it's like she's stabbed him through the chest a million times over.

"But it's not like you love Rabastan," he pleads, as the weight on his chest begins to grow, "You haven't even shagged him."

There's something of guilt on her face and Ted sinks onto her bed,sagging back, head in hands, only then noticing the picture of them, her and Lestrange, on her window and feeling like punching it.

"You fucked Lestrange." It's not a question, it's a weary statement of someone who feels like they've just been slapped. "Do you realise what sort of diseases he probably carries?"

"Shut up, Tonks." It's half-hearted, but it still stings.

"Fine." Ted spits out. "I'll go home. All I ever was was a mudblood to you anyway."

Not before shoving over that bookcase so all the beautifully binded books tumble and crash among the floor and taking particular time in smashing that awful picture of her and Lestrange, he apparates back home, leaving a sobbing Andromeda alone for what they believe is the last time.

* * *

He awakes, bleary-eyed, next to some nameless girl at The Leaky Cauldron, which he assumes is where he apparated to. It's almost midday, he's hungover and he feels like screaming, or throwing something.

He does both.

And then he goes home to his mother, who welcomes him back with a hug (which he begrudgingly agrees to), and gives him the usual speech 'life is hard' blah blah 'she didn't deserve you' (which is complete bullshit, he thinks, the reason he's in this position is because he didn't deserve her.) 'there are other fish in the sea' trying to get through to him until he's ready to physically throw up (although that might be from the alcohol).

First thing he does once he's free is chuck the black scarf out of the window, because he doesn't want to look at it anymore.

He chucks himself into his bed, howls muffled by the pillows, and stays there for the rest of the holidays. Lying awake, trying not to think about her, because he gave her everything he had and she just stamped on it, put a stake through the heart he never thought he had. All of her words repeat in his head, swimming through his brain until he just wants to collapse and die.

Because she broke him.

* * *

He sits alone on the train ride. He never used to sit with her before, no, couldn't risk her precious Pureblood friends finding out that she conversed with a mudblood, but he usually sat with the other Ravenclaws, throwing a sarcastic comment in here and there.

As he gets off the train, he sees her and Lestrange snogging by the lake, him tucking some dumb pink flower, a rose maybe, into her hair and he feels like ripping something in two. They're perfection and he is anything but.

Hogwarts remains like that for a while, him ducking down every time he catches a flash of that pretty (ugly, he corrects himself) brown hair, avoiding them when he's out in the hall, trying to ignore every attempt she has to speak with him (there are only two, and they are just her trying to tell him off for some dumb prank he pulled). Ted stops seeing other girls, rejecting their advances like she rejected him.

He hasn't smiled in two weeks now, just some thin-lipped line he gives to convince others he's okay.

It's getting harder to talk, harder to _breathe_.

* * *

"You bastard!" Ted slurs -maybe he's drunk, he can't remember- , but he's currently in a broom closet with Rabastan Lestrange (he never thought he'd say that), who is pinned up against the wall by his throat, choking out obscene threats towards Ted. "You have this great, fabulous, beautiful, bright girlfriend with a heart of gold and legs that I bet would look amazing in fishnets and then you go and shag some blonde tart in a broom corridor."

Said blonde tart trembles, pulls on her skirt and flees from the room, as Ted continues. "We don't deserve her. Neither of us do, nobody in this school does. She deserves some terrific, boring Pureblood guy who she'll settle down and have kids with, who'll buy her all the books in the world and never once look at another girls arse. Someone who will laugh at all her sarcastic comments, who won't smoke because he's too good to do that, a gentleman who will treat her right, make her feel warm and fuzzy inside." He looks Lestrange up and down with disgust. "You're not worthy to breathe the same air as her.

"At least," Rabastan rasps, "I'm not a mudblood."

And Rabastan definitely doesn't miss the fist swinging towards his face.

* * *

"I accept," Andromeda says slowly, as though she is tasting the words, "That I may have been slightly harsh toward you."

"Slightly?" Ted raises an eyebrow.

"Rabastan told me what you said. He seemed very disparaging but it was..." She gets a faraway look in her eye. "Nice of you. But Ted I don't-know-your-middle-name Tonks, why the hell did you have to go and punch him?"

"George." Ted grins for what seems like the first time in years.

"George?"

"Edward George Tonks."

"Wait...wait...wait...Edward?"

Ted stares at her. "You thought my first name was Ted, didn't you?"

Andromeda blushes. "No."

"We've been friends for about a year and you didn't even know my first name."

Suddenly he's laughing, in peals on the floor, uncaring of what anybody might think (although it's midnight, so the corridors are pretty deserted), gasping and wheezing for air.

Andromeda offers him her hand and he ignores the beating of his heart as he stands up.

"So," she says, hands still entwined. "About what you said at the ball."

"Forget it." Ted replies a little too quickly. "I was drunk."

"Seriously Ted? _That's_ your excuse?" He can feel the traces of anger in her voice, so he tries to take a calm approach.

"Forget it." he repeats, and she flounces away from him.

"I'm in love with you, Dromeda." Ted confesses to an empty corridor.

* * *

Because she's already gone.

The next time he sees her, he notices she's in a skirt as short as hell, the top button of her shirt is undone and she smells so strongly of cake icing he just wants to grab her tie, throw her against a wall and -

Merlin, he's going insane.

"Happy birthday." Ted murmurs.

"Thanks." Andromeda replies, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

"I got you something."

"Oh, uh," she licks her lips nervously, which he swears to merlin she did on purpose, just to wind him up, "Thanks again."

Ted throws her a parcel which she claws apart.

"What is it?" she asks, squinting.

"Muggle fairytales. I...felt bad about destroying your bookcase. I'm sorry."

Andromeda blinks. "Did you just apologise to me?"

"Maybe, yeah." Ted shrugs, and silence falls between them, until she wraps her hands around his neck and kisses him on the lips. She tastes of caramel and strawberry jam and her birthday cake, and it's a blissful pause from the world, a hold on the war, a break in time until they pull apart and just look at each other for what feels like eternity till she takes his fingers and entwines them with his own again.

Something flickers inside of him and million and one times.

* * *

"Whatever you have with the mudblood needs to stop."

Narcissa shakes her pretty blonde curls off of her face as she speaks sharply to Andromeda, who pales and takes a step backward.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I saw you kissing."

"What? I think you must have mistaken Rabastan for someone else."

"I may be two years younger than you Andromeda, but I'm not an idiot. And unlike some people, I'm not a whore."

"Oh really?" Andromeda hisses. "Well at least I didn't shag Carrow, Cissy. That neckline is far too low for your own wellbeing."

Narcissa turns a shade of violet. "Amycus is from a decent family."

"Oh, so you wouldn't mind if I tell mother and father about your escapades?"

"And you wouldn't mind if I told them about yours?"

"I'll end it." Andromeda promises numbly. "And we can all go back to playing happy families and dumb balls and dresses."

"Good." Narcissa tosses her hair again. "You know what happened to Aunt Cedrella when she married a Weasley. Imagine what would happen if they found out you were sharing spit with a mudblood." she wrinkles her nose in disgust. "I just want things to go back to normal Andromeda."

"Me too." Andromeda breathes. "Me too."

* * *

"Ted?"

"Hmmm...?"

"I need to talk to you." Andromeda breathes out, swinging their hands along.

"Wait," Ted says seriously. "Do you want to stay at mine for Easter?"

"Yours?" she squeaks.

"Yeah." He runs a hand through his hair. "It's just, normally we can't go out in public and that sucks, so I thought you'd like to stay over at mine. It's an okay place and there's a beach nearby so we won't get bored..." He sucks in a breath. "And my mum makes really good tea."

"Yeah," Andromeda tells him as she kisses him, temporarily forgetting, "That sounds cool."

* * *

His fingers furl tightly round hers as they sit on the sand, watching the sea wash in and out and back again.

"It's beautiful." she murmurs.

"Like something else I could mention."

"And what's that?"

"I think you know."

And he kisses her, not their first, not their last, it's short and sweet and gentle until Andromeda feels the first drop of rain on her hair.

Ted breaks off the kiss and stands up, offering her his hand.

"I want to stay." she whispers.

"It's raining."

"I love the rain."

He looks at her, his voice small, barely audible as he says it. "I love you."

Andromeda takes up his hand, just looking into his icy blue eyes and takes him back to his house wordlessly, before pulling him up to her room.

* * *

When he wakes up, she's gone, only her sweet scent lingering behind on his pillow, which he sinks his head down into and screams. No note left behind, no warning but he realises what it means, he's not an idiot. Except maybe he is. He should have known, because he's Ted tonks. Andromeda Black is a good girl, the kind who loves her family, who has the sort of memories she's proud of, like getting ten Os on her O. (Ted barely scraped 6 As and two Es). She'll end up marrying Rabastan, Ted thinks bitterly, working for You-know-who.

He'll probably end up dead in a couple of years time.

Ted Tonks doesn't get a happy ending.

"Snogging Gardener again I see." Andromeda says bitterly, after shooing the girl away, walking with him back to Ravenclaw tower.

"Shagging Rabastan again I see."

"Why do we have to fight like this?"

"Oh I don't know, maybe it's because you led me to believe you cared about me, then ditched me!" he stops. "Is this what it was all about? The whole thing? Just a game, using me to make me see how I treat women? Well congratulations Andromeda, you made your point in the most fucked up way possible."

Andromeda pales, getting a tiny lump in her throat which she tries to ignore. "No, Ted, how could you think I would do that?"

"I'm not sure what I think anymore."

"My family," she chokes, "they would kill you if they found out. Narcissa said so."

"Andromeda," Ted spins around to look at her, taking her hands in his, still a sharp tone in his voice. "I would die a million and one times to have you as my girlfriend. That's what - " he hesitates, "Love is. Only - only - you never said it back."

"You don't love me."

"I love you so much sometimes it feels like I'm dying. I love you more than I love myself. And yes, you drive me insane, but I can't enjoy life when you're not around. You captivate me Andromeda Black and it breaks my heart to say it."

"You make it seem so black and white."

"Isn't it?"

"No." Andromeda murmurs. "It's not."

"I'll be waiting." Ted tells her. "For you. Graduation is coming up. If - if, you don't love me, you can tell me then, and I'll leave you alone forever."

"What if I do?" she whispers.

"Then I'll run away with you."

* * *

She drags him away from the refreshments table, out, out, into the corridor, pulling him away into a broom cupboard, where she half-expects him to make some innuendo-y remark, but he just looks up at her silently, expecting an answer.

Slowly, hesitantly, she grabs his tie and pulls him towards her, pressing his lips against her own.

His response is quick, eager, taking ahold of her, almost slamming her into the wall (but she doesn't mind), and kissing her with such passion, fire that it makes her knees wobble and her head dizzy with lust for Ted Tonks.

"Yes?" he questions while peppering her neck with kisses.

"Yes," she breathes. He breaks apart from her, letting a small moan escape from her lips, which he grins at.

"Why?"

"I realised," she says, pulling him in closer again, so that his head is nuzzling her hair. "That life really sucks without Ted Tonks in it."

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter, or the Arctic Monkeys

This was written like, a year ago so it kind of sucks and that was when I went through my Arctic Monkeys faze, so a lot of Fluorescent Adolescent slipped in.

Review/Request?


	9. Fight - FredAngelina

**Fight**

Angelina/Fred

Warnings: swear words, kissing, violence.

* * *

"Is it really _that_ hard to knock me out, boys?" Fred drawls - as though he isn't in massive amounts of searing, burning pain right now - quite casually, turning his head as Marcus Flint connects another fist with his jaw. "Honestly, the amount of fuss you create over me merely _suggesting_ that an _all-male_ Quidditch team is..."

An attempt at a grin - if his lip weren't split, he would manage it. "Well, you know..."

"I'll kill you, Mudblood!"

"Honestly Flint, check the History books, my blood is purer than _yours_. Or does being a half-blood illegitimate bastard not count when you're a _Slytherin_?" He really wishes he could wipe his face - it's practically covered in Marcus' sweat and spit (Merlin, he feels disgusting) but his hands are being held back by some other boy - some lackey of his opponents.

Another punch.

"Now that's going to leave a bruise." he remarks, sinking to his knees. "Oh, and you're going to go for the wand as well? _Okay_ then."

"Put the wand down, you prick." Fred almost smiles (then winces at the sensation) when he hears the voice - it's her - of course it is, he knew she would come through.

She always does.

Marcus just jabs it further towards Fred's head, practically poking it in his ear, the bloody nuisance - but now, he's far more interested in what she has to say.

"Why does nobody ever listen to me?" Angelina mutters, pulling her wand out of her pocket and casting a simple non-verbal that sends both boys (and the random one on the side...just watching - yeah, Fred isn't sure about that one either) backwards through the air, landing in a heap by the wall.

"Good aim, Johnson!"

"You," she says, sending a finger flying in his direction, "shut the fuck up. I'm mad at you."

"Aren't we - "

"_God_, Flint," Angelina interrupts, throwing her hands up in frustration. "Don't you ever learn how to be quiet? Do you want me to curse you _again_?"

He mumbles something that sounds strangely like 'PMS.' Fred predicts what's going to happen before it happens - Marcus, ending up slumped sideways, very much unconscious.

And Fred simply can't help (even if it hurts like hell) but beam.

* * *

"Here," she tosses him a small pot of something. "It'll help with the bruises."

"Why must you know _everything_?"

"Why must _you_ continue to be a jackass, then rely on _me_ to come and save you?"

He pauses and pretends to think - unable to come up with a witty response. "Good point."

Angelina runs a frustrated hand through her hair, letting a small sigh escape from her lips - where he can't help but _look_. "You'll get yourself _murdered_ Fred."

"I _won't_," he promises numbly - trying to ignore that...thing in his brain that's secretly delighted she actually _cares_ about him. "That's not going to happen, Angie."

"One of these days," she flicks her head back to look at him - like pity mixed with anxiety. "I'm not going to be around - and you're going to make a smart-arse remark and you'll get hurt - "

He points to his black-and-blue face, smiling a little.

"Seriously hurt. And," she swallows. "It's going to be all my fault."

"No it's _not_." Fred rolls his eyes and swats her arm playfully. "When I...'slip through the veil' it'll be _my_ fault, not yours." He pauses for dramatic effect. "Just...avenge my death, would you?"

She pushes him away from her (as gently as possible, he is injured after all) and grins when he acts wounded.

"You're amazing." He tells her, somewhat-serious. "Did you know that?"

"Of course."

* * *

"I cannot _believe_ you!"

"What's wrong?"

She blinks. Once, twice, then again. "Are you fucking _kidding_ me? You got yourself _kicked_ _off_ the team! You swore to me you'd never get into another fight!"

"I don't recall explicitly _saying_ \- " he begins, but is cut off.

"How _could_ you?"

"I didn't even get into the fight!" Fred argues - knowing he'll probably be defeated, but sticking to his guns. "It was Harry and George, actually - "

"You should have stopped them!" Angelina takes a deep breath. "You got involved as well - it was only because you were held back - "

"I'm the one who got kicked out of the team, why are _you_ mad?"

"Because I'm the captain that's about to be humiliated in the Cup - "

He could almost chuckle at that. "Angie, you could never be _humiliated_. You're bloody _brilliant_ \- and anyone that doesn't recognise it is an idiot."

When she grabs his mouth and plants it against her own, it's a sort-of surprise, because he's seen this coming (or hoping for it) for months, wondering if a girl spending the whole of Charms staring at you is good or bad, seen the little flash within her eyes (and I'm-so-embarrassed-but-I-don't-want-to-show-it-nod) whenever he sends a flirtatious wink her way.

His fingers tug at her hair, _her_ fingers clutching at his collar as he spins them both around, so that her back is pressed against the nearest (conveniently close, he thinks blindly) wall - which is about when it hits her that she is _kissing Fred Weasley_ and draws away, her face taking on a _did-I-**really**-just-do-that_? expression.

A glare - as if it somehow his fault (after all, she kissed _him_) and a swipe at his arm to show that she is not happy - not at _all_. "Tell anyone, Weasley, and you're _dead_."

"Gotcha, Johnson!" Fred calls as she marches through the corridors, mock-salute to top it off. "Not a word, I swear!"

Merlin, _how_ big is the grin on his face?

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter

Thanks to TheJesusFreak777 for requesting, I hope you enjoyed! : )


	10. Watching - AndrewKirke?

Watching

Andrew Kirke/?

Warnings: alcoholism, death, HBP spoilers

* * *

He's watching her again.

Watching as she sits down on the far end of Gryffindor table. She's been drinking again, he can tell, from the dark rings around her eyes and the way she frowns, trying to un-blur her eyes as she shakes the dark curls off her face.

It's a bad habit, he knows and he wishes he could help but it's because of _that_ night that she is like this and it's because of _that_ night Andrew Kirke physically _can't_.

Then Dumbledore dies.

There's a war on and everyone already knew it, but it was forgotten amidst all the parties and snogging and gossip but when Dumbledore dies it's there, like a bad smell.

Dumbledore, their great, invincible leader is _dead_.

Panic ensues and he can tell that this is not going to be good for her, or anyone, but especially her.

She goes missing for the last few days of term and he's worried because she is just fifteen, the same age as him and she could be anywhere, she could be just like Dumbledore, stone-cold and glassy-eyed.

Merlin, he wishes that isn't true.

Then his summer is spent in hiding, hiding because his mother married a muggleborn - which makes them blood-traitors (it's not like he _asked_ to be born) and therefore targets.

Which is stupid, because he is the _worst_ person to seek out (on purpose) ever, scrawny, _weak_ \- about as gullible as a con man in love (he always finds that similar sad, for some reason) and really, really easy to catch.

Who would gain Death-Eater points (he can just imagine You-Know-Who handing out smiley-face stickers at each of their meetings) for killing _Andrew-fucking_-_Kirke_?

* * *

So they all hide (him, his mother, his father, his father's parents and his grandmother - her father never supported her decision), hide away in a house protected by the Fidelius (protected by Alastor Moody, his mother is sure that he will never, ever betray them).

They are bored, stuck there in their little home in Dorset, cooped up with those nice beige armchairs and neatly-ordered cutlery, their

After about a hundred games of wizard chess, his father snaps. He tells Rosalind (Andrew's mother) that he wants to be out there, out there on the front lines, killing Death Eaters and protecting them all, because he is a muggleborn and this is his war and he is a _man_.

Oh, _his dad_. Defying gender roles and stereotypes every single day, _that's_ Jason Kirke.

Then Rosalind slaps him for being sexist, and tears running down her cheeks, tells him that if he is going, she's going with him.

Even his parents, his ninety-two (forty-six) year old parents are still in love and it's...pretty sickening to watch.

He might never see them again.

So when Andrew sits there, watching another Disney movie with his muggle grandparents and Pureblood grandmother - who has only recently been introduced to the concept - he finds himself disgusted when all he can think about is _her_.

But then, he thinks about Albus Dumbledore.

Because, really, this is all _his_ fault.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter, or Disney.

Review/request?


	11. Perfection - SiriusJames

**Perfection**

Sirius/James

Warnings: swear words

* * *

You're a little broken on the inside.

It's not your fault, (not entirely, though truth be told, you share some of the blame) - other people have been slowly chipping away at your soul since the day you were born, refusing to let you be _happy_.

To smile, to laugh, to sing with joy or whatever the fuck those muggle-fictional-characters do when their life isn't as screwed up as yours.

You're Sirius Black and you're an apple-juice drinking, family-hating _rebel_.

* * *

James is different.

No, Prongs is...nice-ish, (in that incredibly arrogant way) not exactly _law-abiding_, but sure does he know when _not_ to cross the goddamn line.

You never learned.

James is kind-of-maybe perfect and you're pretty much the opposite.

Smart, handsome, (god, did you really just say that?) rich - not that it matters...much - brave, yeah, that about sums him up.

Because all these people paint you as the cocky one, the one who denies his flaws and you _don't_.

You might not show it - but you're dreadfully, dreadfully _insecure_.

* * *

But he doesn't make you feel like that.

Not really - sometimes you feel a bit...inferior (does that make sense?) in his presence (because in comparison to him...you're, well, a piece of _shit) _it's hard to explain - it's like, despite what you've been told your whole life, you're worth _something_.

Yeah, that's it. Prongs takes away that sense of worthlessness that's been following you around like a bad smell for the past sixteen years.

When he says your name, it's as if he actually _cares_. About you. Which, you've found - feels kind-of good.

If you pull pranks, you're 'hilarious' not 'immature' and even if he rolls his eyes - you know that it's not _meant_ to hurt you, his insults are teasing, not cruel and somehow...around him, you get this strange sense of _relevance_.

Like you actually matter.

You don't think you would smile if you didn't have the Marauders.

* * *

If you didn't have Prongs - because they say you should keep around the things (except he's not a thing, he's a human-being) that take away your troubles and honestly, he does.

In fact, you can't remember the last time you thought of your family (except they're not, not really) when you were with him. The last time that horrible, soul-sucking group of monsters crossed your mind when the two of you were together.

He helps you to forget and that's the best thing anyone could ever do.

* * *

Remus and Peter - they're friends, but James - _James_ is your _soulmate_.

As in, you don't want to be without him.

Sometimes he eats too much, sometimes he's too irresponsible, a little too sarcastic, sassy, a little too philosophical - but that's _okay_.

Because you've realised (and this is where you know the true definition of _love) _that James isn't _flawless_.

(yeah, you might have romanticised him a tad)

No, he's not - he's like you - just a tiny bit broken.

The point being, you don't give a fuck.

You're still best-friends (maybe something more, you hope...someday) and that, _that_, Sirius Black is the closest you'll ever get to perfection.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter

Thanks to **Intes1ty** for reviewing, (I don't know how I missed you out when you reviewed, but I did and I apologise) I'm glad you enjoyed : )

Thanks to **Kazo Sakamari** for requesting (and reviewing my other stories). I get what you mean about Bellatrix. I think that's why she's one of my favourite characters to write - because she's so complex and difficult to understand.

Ironically, Andromeda _is_ my favourite Black sister, but I thought it would be cool to have a different perspective on her.

The whole Sirius/James thing from **Cokeworth** was actually a mistake, because I was going to make it into a multi chapter but then I decided to just post it as a oneshot instead. It's a subtle reference to one of my other multi-chapter stories and to my own head canon.

I hope you enjoyed this!


	12. Eventually - TedAndromeda

Eventually

Ted/Andromeda

Warnings: swear words, fairly-mild violence, sexual references

* * *

"You're leaving."

It's an accusation - a mixture of weariness (well, Andromeda reasons, it is four in the morning) and anger - Narcissa isn't a fool, she knows all too well what her sister is up to.

"Yeah." An apology in all but the word 'sorry.' Because, out of all of them, Andromeda will miss her little sister the most - the little sister she'll probably never speak to again, after she's gone.

"Where is _he_?" Of course, they both know who _He_ refers to - the most common source of debate between the pair. "Is he in the house?"

As if on cue, Ted materialises out of seemingly-nothing, lugging a frill-adorned (their mother always _did_ like to enforce gender stereotypes) suitcase down the stairs. "Andromeda are you ready to - "

He nearly drops the thing when he sees Narcissa. "Shit." A nervous glance between the two sisters. "Andromeda?"

"I can't let you do this."

Narcissa's dainty-pink little mouth is open before either can stop the unmistakable cry of '_Bellatrix_!' Ted grabbing his girlfriend by the hand and leading her through the hallway (even though he has absolutely no idea where he is going).

"Andy?"

Fuck.

Fuck.

_Fuck_.

His first reaction is to pull out his wand - because he's heard all of the stories on Bellatrix Black and a grand total of _none_ of them give the impression she'll go easy on the rebel-Mudblood shagging her sister.

Except 'shagging' kind of underplays the whole thing. More...'in love,' but he hasn't told her that yet - he's biding his time, waiting - in fact, he's pretty amazed she agreed to _this_ whole thing in the first place.

Running away with him. Leaving her parents, her fancy home, to live in a pretty-cramped, cluttered flat that needs a neat-freak like her to clear it up. To step out of one life and enter the next - a one with him in it.

Them waking up together (he doesn't even mind that she hogs the bedsheets). Holding hands. Sitting by the fireplace on frosty December nights, with only each other and a cup of hot chocolate for warmth. A white, white wedding. Growing old and wrinkled and not caring in the slightest. A flock of children buzzing around, that he claims to annoy him, but doesn't.

That's what he wants to have.

Those ruby-red lips (the sort that could only belong to a cold-blooded killer) set into a deep frown, head cocked to the side in a contemplative manner. "Who are you?"

Andromeda's eyes almost _plead_ with him not to say anything. Which is looking like the best option, so Ted follows her sort-of-advice and shuts the hell up.

"Narcissa?"

Though they're quite a few feet away, he can still read the way her mouth moves into the word he's heard so many times before, the way her bottom-lip curls when she forces it out - '_Mudblood_.'

Of course, Bellatrix is able to understand _that_.

"Why are you here?" Her voice is still relatively calm, but he catches the slight shrill on the last word, as her gaze drop to his hands, which are still wrapped around Andromeda's.

"Apparate." he hisses out into the near-darkness, somewhere within the proximity of her ear. "Come on, let's go."

"I can't," she whispers back, suddenly-stricken. "I left another bag upstairs."

Yeah, they're definitely, definitely screwed. Maybe it'll be a whole Romeo-and-Juliet type thing, dying in each others arms, all at the hands of her disapproving, slightly-messed-up (if you could class it as _slightly_) family.

"Didn't you hear me?" Bellatrix fumbles around in her robe for something distinctly stick-shaped and ominous-looking. "I said, _why are you here_?"

Oh, there was some definite anger in _that_.

"Run," Ted tells Andromeda, keeping his own wand firmly trained upon his opponent's. "Go, I'll keep her busy."

He only turns his head for a fraction of a second to watch those feet flurry up another flight of stairs, but by then she has already sent the first curse - which he manages to dodge just before it hits.

"What are you doing with my sister?" Another flick of the wand - a stunning spell, he thinks it is - that is quickly deflected by his own.

"I thought you were _smart_?" A bold move, he knows, but then - when has he _ever_ been shy? "Come _on_, Black, you haven't guessed by now?"

Her face pales as she comprehends the situation - practically jamming her wand as she fires another curse his way. "You're going to _die_!"

"Eventually." Joking with Bellatrix Black - not a good idea, under _any_ circumstances. "Was that the crucio? Learnt that from the _Dark Lord_?"

"You dare - " But her spell goes spiralling out of control, flying over his shoulder, right towards the nearest object -

"_Jesus Christ_." Ted grabs Andromeda's arm just in time, tugging her towards him and shielding her with his body, so she can't be hit again - because that's his top priority. "You injured?"

A tiny (almost imperceptible) shake of the head, before her dark-brown eyes settle on her sisters. "Give my _love_ to mother and father."

"Are you really going to do this? Abandon us?" Narcissa steps out from behind Bellatrix, her face contorting into a sneer. "Your family?"

He thinks he sees something of guilt flash through Andromeda, before she gives a sad smile and passes him the rest of her bags. "You're _not_ my family."

Then she takes his hand (with a reassuring squeeze, to help him along) once more and they both disappear into the black.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter

For **Guest**, as per request, I hope you enjoyed it and I will be posting the Remus/Tonks oneshot very, very soon. Thanks!


	13. Scars - RemusTonks

**Scars**

RemusTonks

Warnings: ... one swear word. _One_.

* * *

It's not his eyes.

You have this picture - of him and you, his arm thrown loosely around your shoulder (he has no idea how much that meant to you at the time) where he's just looking at the camera and then he _winks_.

And you pretty much die inside.

Because that shade of green should be _illegal_. Seriously. It doesn't help that he's the most photogenic person _ever_, while you're usually stuck trying to whip the hair out of your face, or awkwardly squinting in the sunlight.

You can't even _wink_ without making it look awkward, or creepy, or fucked-up, not badass and suave like he does.

But it's not them - because out of all the things you could choose, his _eyes_ seem a little cliche.

* * *

It's not his smile.

When you get to see it at least - because Remus Lupin isn't a particularly smiley person, but you do catch a glimpse occasionally, if Sirius says something funny.

That sweet, totally non-judgemental beam, just the corners of his mouth lifting up ever so slightly, the one that somehow makes you grin too.

It's kind of like a reminder - that even though there's a war going on, (and you're both probably going to die...ever the optimist) there's still _some_ source of joy out there.

Even if it is only a man's slightly-awkward smile.

Except that _isn't_ why, for no excuse other than you can think of a dozen reasons better.

* * *

It's not his fashion sense.

Because you love that, you really do - how misshapen and messy the clothes he wears are, how the words '_seriously? You looked at that and decided it was a good idea_?' spring to mind whenever you see him.

It's adorable and endearing, and it nearly-always makes you snort with laughter.

And argyle sweaters most definitely _do not_ suit him.

You aren't a particularly cruel (or shallow) person though, so his 'fashion quality' doesn't _quite_ make the top of the list.

* * *

It isn't how smart he is.

Like seriously - _Ravenclaw_ smart. You made it as an _auror_ and you still don't have Remus' intelligence. Or how sensible he is - which can be a bit of a buzzkill, but you don't mind (not really).

Remus Lupin could probably kill a man without blinking. But he wouldn't (well, _maybe_ in battle) because he's so _nice_. _Hufflepuff_ nice.

Merlin, you need to stop that.

But it's not - because sometimes (you know you're being a _little_ picky) hecan come off as _slightly_ pretentious.

It's not a big deal though.

* * *

It's the scars.

The long scratches that make him _him_, that remind you he is so terribly brave and strong - how he faces _that_ once every month, which you sure as hell couldn't do.

They are a part of him - an everlasting mark, they represent permanence, which you - with your _gift_ (more like a curse, you think occasionally) have come to appreciate as being an awfully wonderful thing.

That he - you, all of you - are mortal and will someday come to die, but you don't recognise the melancholia (ever the optimist, remember?) and choose to view the poetic aspect - you are people and it is _amazing_.

Yes, you break and you fall and you crumple - but at the end of the day, you are still there, still remaining and you kind of _love_ the whole artistic beauty - as individuals, you fade out, like stars in the sky, but as one, giant race, you'll never die out.

Rugged and worse-for-wear, they map his body like a patchwork quilt, tiny little flaws that are unnoticed amidst something beautiful.

Something Remus.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter

Thanks again to **Guest** for requesting, and to **lbbonray** for the review - GeorgeLee will be up soon, I promise!

Review/request?


	14. Trouble - GeorgeLee

Trouble

George/Lee

Warnings: swear words

* * *

It's when he realises that he's falling for his best friend that Lee _knows_ he's in trouble.

He finds himself wondering _why_ \- because George isn't particularly attractive, or special, (which is a little harsh, but true) just...well, George Weasley - but then, it's not as if that's not a wonderful thing to be.

_One_ of his best friends at least - Merlin knows what _Fred_ would say if it were _him_ \- except for that very-very-glaring problem - George views him as a brother from another mother.

And, quite frankly, Lee isn't down for incest.

He spends pretty much the whole of Christmas break trying not to think of George, or George naked, or George saying just about anything with implications (but then, 'do you want help with that?' isn't _really_ a signal whether or not someone is into you...).

It's...hard, (and if George _were_ around, he would make an innuendo-type remark) to say the least.

Because Lee's brain jumps from anything and everything to...one half of the Weasley twins (or-the-not-quite-evil-he-who-shall-not-be-named.

Trains-Hogwarts-Him.

Jam-Blackberries-Strawberries-people who happen to love Strawberries-Him

It's like a _really_ fucked up game of word association.

He wishes he could say his life sucks, but the problem is (and this is where the whole shitty Gryffindor morality comes into motion)...he knows, Merlin knows, _everybody_ knows that it _could_ be worse.

* * *

When he comes back to school, he gets paranoid. Like, '_is that flirting or friendly conversation_?' '_why is George touching her arm_?'

Oh, wouldn't it be hi-fucking-larious if he was in love with Angelina? His brother's girl - sounds like a song (or some Rick Springfield parody) one of those lazily-written, energetic modern pop songs that they play on the Wizarding Wireless all the time.

There's a poem - Lee thinks, that sums up...their situation pretty accurately - the domino effect, where nobody is happy, because he fancies George (huh, guess he just admitted it) and George fancies Angelina, who is in a - very much reciprocal - relationship with Fred (since when did life turn into a soap opera?)

Yeah, he remembers the last line now 'and to whom it happens, it will break his heart in two.'

Well, he guesses he should have listened to Heinrich Heine when he had the chance.

* * *

"How was your holiday?" Lee aims the question _specifically_ at both of the twins - so it's not as uncomfortable, but Fred still gives that little knowing smile, that kind of makes him freak out...a lot.

"Good." George answers, fiddling with the zip on his suitcase. "Yours?"

"Uh...yeah, fine." It's probably the most generic answer ever - but he really can't help it. "Better than Umbitch any day."

Cue an exchange of dark looks - the sort that say 'we're taking that she-demon down, no matter what.'

Which is immediately followed by an _incredibly_ awkward silence - a rarity for the trio usually filled with...noise.

"I'm going to go check on Angelina." Fred announces, standing up (and nearly knocking over Lee's flask of pumpkin juice in the process). "I'll leave you two - " a wide grin that could only be described as 'trouble.' "to flirt in my absence."

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

A nervous giggle escapes his lips - because, seriously, what else can he do? Playing it off seems like the best option.

"Yeah, I'd better go too." George says abruptly, picking up his stuff and leaving.

Oh, Lee is going to _murder_ Fred.

* * *

"That wasn't cool, man."

Fred tosses another grape into his mouth carelessly, while barely glancing at Lee. "What?"

"You know."

Comprehension dawns on his face. "Oh, _that_. It was just a joke."

The devil (in metaphorical terms - George is about as far off from Satan as one can get) himself approaches the table, sliding into the chair dangerously close to his.

"Forge!" Fred claps him on the back eagerly. "We were just talking about you."

"All good, I hope."

"Definitely." Which is, of course, accompanied by a secretive little wink in Lee's direction - who will, most likely, never show his face again. Ever.

* * *

"What are we doing?" George mutters against his lips. It's a chuckle, sort-of, not-really, because there seems to be a lack of humour behind it, more of a genuine question - to which Lee has no idea of the answer. What _are_ they doing?

Well, _kissing_.

"I don't know." Honesty is the best policy - that's what they all say, but sometimes a lie can mask the wound - and acting innocent, Lee supposes, is probably his greatest option. "Is this alright?"

George gives a combination of a shrug, a nod, a shake of the head and an eye-roll (not in the sarcastic sense - as if to look to the heavens, the sort his face takes on when he's deep in thought).

A pause, where Lee, quite elegantly, he would say, _removes_ himself.

"No, wait..." that moment where brief, glimmering hope strikes him in the gut. "Yeah, okay."

It's not an 'I love you' not a 'will you marry me?' (they're eighteen, for fuck's sake) but it is consent, maybe to a life with Lee in it, maybe just to a fleeting minute in time where they are _LeeandGeorge_ and either way is - perfectly oKay - possibly even without the latter word tossed on as a careless afterthought - just perfect, he would prefer.

* * *

And then Lee wakes up.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter

**A/N**: This is for **lbbonray**, thanks for the review (also for Paint On That Mask as well)/request - Lavender/Firenze will be posted shortly.

Oh, and thanks to Guest for the kind review as well! : )


	15. Pretty - LavenderFirenze

Pretty

Lavender/Firenze

Warnings: implied bestiality, teacher/student, swear words

* * *

Lavender isn't _naturally_ pretty. She doesn't wake up with her hair neatly-shaped around her face, pores invisible and lips that perfect shade of red, like Parvati - no, like with everything else, she has to _work_ for it.

Up at the crack of dawn, painting on her face like it's some kind of easel and that eyebrow-pencil is her brush, because _today_, she tells herself, _today will be the day someone tells her she looks good_. Not, '_okay_,' not '_oh did you lose some weight_?' but an actual compliment - _'you're beautiful_.'

It's kind-of shallow, but she tried the whole intelligence thing and no way did _that_ work out, so she relies on her looks to feel...well, special.

Like she's not second-best to an obviously-better-looking Indian friend, like she absolutely did not put on three pounds over the summer, like she _matters_.

Nobody ever bothers to think of her and goddamnit, it _stings_.

Because she's the fucking airhead, isn't she? The useless one. The one just there to smile and wave, and fuck a bunch of strangers, because that's the only thing she'll ever be good for. The one who everyone is jealous of - but they have no idea what it's like, being her.

It's his comment that sparks it off.

* * *

'_I like your headband, Lavender_.'

And Merlin, she feels like crying, because that's the nicest thing anyone's said to her in _months_. It's not backhanded, or designed to leave her totally confused over whether or not she's just been insulted or complimented.

He's the only person who noticed it too, the pink, frilly thing she bought down at Hogsmeade but was too afraid to wear because...well, it's _girly_.

Everyone knows that being a rebel, black-wearing outcast is the craze nowadays (even if it doesn't win you many friends).

A misunderstood, so-broken-it-hurts girl, the misfit, the sort that the popular boy falls for in an attempt to piss off both his friends and his parents.

That's not who Lavender is - but maybe it doesn't matter.

...

...

Not anymore.

* * *

It's a fervent affair, like she's read in the books, (the sort Parvati smuggles into the dormitory and they giggle over at eleven at night) hurried, secretive but still terribly exciting.

Wrong too, yes, she knows it's wrong, but she - _they_ could do worse things in the world they live in. Murder, for one.

Is _love_ really so illicit? So inappropriate, too much to be considered _right_, like all other kinds?

Because Firenze isn't like all the boys in her class. He's innocent, not like her - no, if they are discovered she will confess that she is the perpetrator, because she is. He is just the ever-willing participant in their liaison, too noble for his own good.

Winks, hidden notes and stolen kisses sums up their relationship - and it thrills her to the core. Little-miss-goody-two-shoes-perfect-Lavender is finally doing something bad - it nearly makes her wish she could tell people, just to see their reaction.

Oh, to be star-crossed and blissfully peaceful in it.

* * *

Lavender blinks herself awake and in doing so, almost drops her quill, prompting a (well, so she thinks) worried glance from Firenze at the front of the class.

_He'll love her back one day_, she tells herself, _he has to_.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter

Music: Don't Stand So Close To Me

A/N: thanks to **lbbonray** for requesting, I hope you enjoyed. Any other reviews/requests are welcome!


	16. Do you care? - ArthurMolly

**Do** **You Care?**

Molly/Arthur

Warnings: mild language

* * *

His legs are the first thing she notices about him. Not his eyes - grey at first glance, then after a close-up view, they're revealed to be blue - or his hair - as ginger as one could get, even more so than her own - but his legs. Long, shapely, just perfect for running.

Which is what she does best, Molly Prewett, run. Not in the cowardly sense (she's as Gryffindor as they come), no, but actual physical running, sprinting through grass as though she could fly, feeling the wind whip through her, only exciting her further.

She notices his legs, because by chance, they accidentally kick her feet during the very first Charms lessons they have together, in first year, the first day of term. She turns, all prepared to rant and rave (because that's just what Molly Prewett does), but after hearing the soft mumble of 'sorry,' she somehow, _somehow_ changes her mind and just smiles at him.

Thus, a friendship is born.

* * *

People tease her about it, with their little chants of: 'Molly and Arthur sitting in a tree doing things that twelve year olds shouldn't be doing' or_something_ along those lines, after all having a boy for a best friend is _completely_ abnormal and should always be stopped (her class never really gets sarcasm). Especially her brothers, who say 'they're already planning the wedding' but her firm reassurance of 'Arthur and I are just_friends_' usually sets them back on track.

He can be a bit exasperating at times, constantly talking about muggles and ekeltrisky and whatnot until the cows come home, but for some reason she likes the look in his eyes when he does it - when they're all bright and shiny, like there's nothing else in the world apart from the fellytone and the terror-vision (honestly, she thinks to herself, those muggles are insane).

They're complete polar opposites, they are, he's far too shy, she's far too bossy - but that's okay, because it means she stands up for him and he quiets her down - he's stick-thin, she's insecure about her weight (entirely Amy Mobb's fault), he wouldn't say boo to a goose, she would hex someone into the hospital wing and back.

Yet they still get along.

Sometimes she gets annoyed, just by how _nice_ Arthur is. Like when she gets that horrible tomboy haircut in third year and all he tells her is 'you look great,' when she _doesn't_, she looks absolutely _hideous_ and why is _Arthur_ the only one who can't see that?

When the Slytherins hex him, the only spells he uses are defence ones (even though she teaches him some really good, _really_ painful ones) and stutters his way out of an argument and it's pathetic, but strangely endearing to watch.

He's like a lost duckling, like the ugly one, the muggle tale that her brothers used to tell to her when she was little - Arthur would probably love it just for that value, but then something strange happens.

He turns into a swan.

* * *

Molly doesn't know when exactly it happens - perhaps the people on her class were right - or why she starts...developing feelings for her best friend, but she does.

It's not like he changes or anything, he's still that dorky, muggle-loving ginger she hangs out with (pretty much all the time), but for some weird, odd, completely, totally _mad_ reason he's _better_. Funnier. Smarter. Even more attractive, which she _knows_ sounds stupid and creepy, but it's true.

Except he's so utterly _oblivious_ to the world around him that he doesn't see the letters M and W scrawled into the back of a certain someone's Charms textbook, he doesn't see the effort Molly Prewett begins to make with her hair, and her clothes, and even make-up (which she had previously sworn off ever using), not like the other boys do.

And it's not like she can just ask him out, they live in the age of arranged marriages for Merlin's sake! She's never been the good little 1960s housewife, but this is something different. It's insane, that she's acting like this, bossy little madam Molly Prewett turned into a stuttering wreck, around her _best friend_. Sad, really, she thinks to herself - that she can't do anything for _herself_ anymore.

Which is when she realises she's acting like a total damsel in distress - just like Amy Mobbs and all the other peroxide-haired, short-skirted, blue-eyed girls on the world, and for the first time in her life, Molly Prewett hates herself.

* * *

So she forgets (the biggest lie she's ever told) about Arthur Weasley, which is hard to do, considering he's her best friend, moves on with her life. Studies more, gets 7 Outstanding grades in her OWLS - even though she has no idea what she wants to do with herself after Hogwarts.

Stays friends with him, of course, it would look strange if she just ditched him for no reason whatsoever, but casually plots a drifting-apart storyline, spending less and less time with him every day.

Yep, she's totally (not) over him.

Then she gets asked out.

Tyler Barnett is a completely random occurrence that nobody could have predicted, probably due to the fact that before he asks her out, Molly had never spoken to him in her life.

Of course, she hears of him from time to time, Tyler happened to be _that_ guy within her circle of friends - the one that is always referenced in conversation ('the funniest thing happened with Tyler the other day' 'so Tyler and Abigail Harding are dating!') but never actually appears - which leads Molly to believe he is, in fact, a _myth_, like King Arthur, or the good Slytherin, until quite casually, one afternoon, he wanders up to her in Charms and asks her to Hogsmeade, very much out of the blue.

Molly is about to turn him down (politely, even, a rare matter for her), before she realises.

Why can't she go out and have fun? Because of Arthur? Isn't that the stereotype she hates most of all? The romantically-bound, self-sacrificing doormat who only exists as a love interest to a man?

"Yes," she tells Tyler, plastic grin spread across her face, "bring chocolate."

So she goes, and the chocolate is _good_ \- better than Arthur could have bought (though she regrets the words as soon as she thinks them, because since when has she cared about money?) all gooey on the inside, which, unfortunately, is not how she feels with Tyler, but hey, she's not expecting to marry him right?

She accepts when he asks her to be his girlfriend, because he's nice and he has a cute grin (not as cute as a certain ginger's) and he is that easy-going, entirely uncomplicated Hufflepuff guy that every girl looks for on the rebound.

But he's not _him_.

* * *

"I..." Arthur stutters, taking precision with his words as she stands there, hand on hip, refusing to listen to what he has to say. "I...don't think he's right for you."

Ignoring the feeling (that immeasurable, indescribable feeling she loathes so much) inside at his words, she pulls her arm away and just_stares_because_ how fucking dare he _just stand there for six months, refusing to do or say anything about her relationship and then suddenly just show up in the middle of the summer, thinking he can boss_ Molly Prewett_ around, tell _her_ what to do with her love life?

He had his chance and he blew it, a long time ago, when he let her go of with someone else, let her abandon their six-year long friendship without any qualms, let her slip from his grasp.

He's supposed to be the knight in shining armour, not the coward in sheep's clothing.

"Why, Arthur?" she pleads, looking into his eyes, trying to settle the rage stirring in her stomach, boiling and bubbling, brewing and mixing with something else, something she swore off a long time ago. "Why not?"

"Because." he mutters.

She swings the door firmly shut in his face, wills the tears not to fall and shouts 'that's what I thought' at the door, though the boy behind it is long gone, like he was never there.

Maybe he never was.

Molly can't really tell what's real or fake anymore.

* * *

It's a nearly inaudible mumble (Arthur never was a particularly loud boy) but the words make her day.

"Can I have this dance?"

She glances towards Eleanor (her 'date' for Slughorn's Christmas party, after both trying and failing to get boys to go with them, they decided to crash as hopeless, helpless singles), who nods her head and gives her the thumbs up - a motion which Molly decides to ignore, wandering off to find the punch - which has by this point, no doubt been spiked with firewhisky.

"I heard you broke up with Tyler."

"Him sticking his tongue down Jasmine Lewis' throat didn't exactly help the relationship."

"I'm sorry."

Is he? Probably. Arthur is that sort of person.

"Look, Molly," he clears his throat awkwardly, hands seeming to fly everywhere at once (he does that when he's nervous, she remembers), clumsily tucking a strand of her hair behind her ear and gulping quietly to himself. "I think..."

She stands there, hardly believing what he's about to do - finally after all this time (a little late, but still).

"I think..." Arthur takes a deep breath and steadies himself, "I think I like you."

"Oh." She watches his face fall and tilts his chin upwards with her fingers gently. "That's good."

"It is?" he stammers out, eyes not leaving hers, swaying softly to 'A Cauldron Full Of Hot, Strong Love.'

"Yeah. Because I think I like you too."

* * *

I don't own:

Harry Potter

The Ugly Duckling

King Arthur

This cover image, which I got by typing 'love' into google images and belongs to someone other than me.

**A/N** I don't even know where this came from...

My dreamcasts for young Molly and Arthur are Sara Rue and Luke Newberry respectively.

If you made it this far, then please, please scroll down to box at the bottom of the page and request a couple. You don't even have to properly review (thought it would be nice). It's as simple as typing your favourite pairing in and clicking submit review (for example: Blaise/Parvati for me)


	17. Cracks - DracoOC

**Cracks**

Draco/OC

Warnings: swear words, AU, discussion of death

Music: _Ghost of a Corporate Future_, Regina Spektor

* * *

_There are time cracks in the universe, Blaise tells him_.

All that magic, all those spells those millions of wizards cast a day - they add up. It's like the muggle concept of the 'ozone layer,' except a little less accepted and a whole lot more dangerous.

_At first, Draco doesn't believe him_.

Blaise is nineteen, living off his parent's money (aren't they all?) and currently bloody-amazed he got Patil to go out with him (lucky sod could _get_ a girlfriend) which makes him a perfect candidate for stupid conspiracy theories that are in no way whatsoever true.

_If you poke enough holes, something will rip_.

He doesn't even fucking care anyway, Voldemort's killed half of them all anyway, why bother saving the universe from another disaster?

Except that he didn't bother, in fact, he helped him out, then switched sides so that he wouldn't get caught and sent to Azkaban. Draco has always been the coward, ever since he was born.

"Of course the war would do it no good," Blaise tells him one night, while they're both completely stoned. "With all those spells, where'd you think they go, Draco? Where does all that energy disappears to?"

If he were sober enough, he would stop to think about that, but for now, his answer is a simple "I don't know," because he doesn't. Not at all.

_He's about to find out_.

* * *

"_Have you ever heard of the multiverse theory, Malfoy_?"

Of course he has, he's read the bloody muggle books that yammer on and on about it - that doesn't mean it's _real_. There's Earth and that's it. No strange world out there where they're all lizards or some bullshit like that.

"Is there a universe where you're not a paranoid, sci-fi obsessed loser, Zabini?"

He blinks and nods his head. Idiot, Draco thinks affectionately, before his companion continues to fail to persuade him that they're all going to die some insane-yet-torturous death. Which apparently only he understands will never happen, because now _Nott_ is starting to go along with the whole crackpot idea.

"It's possible," Theodore says, knocking back another shot of Firewhisky (just proof that he shouldn't be trusted to make decisions on this whole thing) and waving to the bartender, "it'd make for an interesting investigation."

Goyle believes the nonsense too, but he can't exactly be called 'the brightest of the bunch.'

_It's tosh. Complete utter tosh_.

Honestly, if this 'rip in the fabric of time' is so evident, then why are it's only supporters three nerdy nineteen-year-olds with no physics background whatsoever?

Three nerdy _ex-Death-Eaters _at that. If they spread the world, everyone would think they were trying to destroy the world, not the opposite.

Draco couldn't care less if it imploded into a billion pieces.

* * *

_Things start disappearing_.

It's the smaller stuff at first, like the keys to his flat, or his address book. He knows it isn't just a case of pure disorganisation...because it's happening to other people too. As if someone cast a dozen vanishing charms that misfired and attached themselves onto random objects.

It's a bother, but it's of little significance.

_Then someone goes missing_.

Not just a person. _People_. Suspected attacks at first. Murders, by the few remaining Death Eaters, or some new Voldemort trying to take over.

Except there are accounts.

They weren't killed, then dumped in a lake somewhere. They didn't even get stabbed, or had a kind of muggle death happen to them. They were doing normal, everyday things like brushing their teeth, or strolling down the street when all of a sudden they...

Disintegrate. Shatter into a million pieces, each scattered to the wind, as if they never existed in the first place. It's a fairly horrible way to go, but when has Malfoy ever cared about the suffering of others?

* * *

_He never believed in the time slips. Until he fell through one_.

* * *

Draco wakes up vaguely-reassembled, somewhere distant and unknown. At first, his vision is all black and white and blurry, almost as if he's going to collapse, but he manages to stay awake.

That stupid Muggle movie quote pops into his head - "_We're not in Kansas anymore, Draco_."

He never was in Kansas to begin with, but the point remains: he has no idea where the fuck he is.

Wand. Shit. Shit. Shit. It's not in his pocket.

_Fuck_.

"Matthew." It's a hiss, low-pitched, probably-male and definitely mad. "Matthew."

It takes a while before Draco realises the voice is directed at him. "I'm not _Matthew_."

He rolls onto his side, to face the man speaking to him - who, if he could compare him to anyone, looks a little like Sirius Black, with the hardened-criminal aspect there, but the puppy-dog-heart missing.

The OtherBlack produces a pack of cigarettes from his pocket - how very cliche, Draco thinks dryly - and lights one up, giving a faint chuckle (humourless, the sort Malfoy is well-acquainted with) and scratching his chin with his free hand. "I don't want any more of your crazy shit, you hear me? I got people coming around this afternoon."

"Just to clarify, are you my father? Uncle? Inappropriately-older junkie friend?"

The question seems to confuse his companion, who he's beginning to presume is the first off the list - some parent from another world, a world where he is Matthew - a plain, boring muggle.

"Stop playing your fucking games and get with it, Matt, or you'll be getting a beating, you hear me?"

Guess he has daddy issues in this world as well.

* * *

_His name is Matthew King_.

Draco's parents never seem to notice that they don't have any pictures of him from before the age of seventeen, (two years younger than he is really) none of him as a baby, or an awkward pre-pubescent teenager, all they do is insist that they are, in fact, related to him.

He wonders if the _real_ Matthew King is off somewhere, living _his_ life, enjoying _his_ magic, spending _his_ money, the lucky bastard.

It isn't Earth, where he is now. For a start, he's never heard of the country before - it's not even one of those ones that sound made-up but actually aren't, like Kazakhstan, or Merlin knows where else. White, Western, sort-of like America, but not.

They label it like the old planet, yet this is an entirely new one.

* * *

_The world is ending, she tells him_.

They meet at school, Dr - Matthew and the girl with the hair dyed the colour of the sky. She says her name is Maisie and if he had to place an ethnicity, he would say Indian. Except India doesn't exist anymore, so she belongs to whatever the fuck this place is called.

_Nobody else believes him_.

Draco. That's what she calls him, _Draco_, his original name, because she thinks he's telling the truth, which is too goddamn refreshing for words. Muggle, of course, they all are, but he's starting to accept that he'll never meet another wizard ever again.

He cries in front of her and she doesn't mind. Tells her all about magic - she seems pretty interested, actually - about Hogwarts, about the Death Eaters.

Goes to a great length to cover _that_ up, because he's _always_ been a coward - and she seems the Potter-supporting sort.

It's a theory of hers, similiar to Blaise's, but more..._muggle_, more depressing too, when he thinks about it.

_They're all going to die_.

* * *

She points upwards for her evodence, to the vast stretch of atmosphere the colour of her hair and informs him that it's dying. _It's not bulletproof_, Maisie repeats, until she's almost on the verge of tears, _it's not bulletproof_.

He walks away, because he's never been very good at comfort.

How could the sky die anyway?

Maybe she's just insane. Wouldn't be the first of his friends. Probably not the last, if he ever gets out of here. Gets away from her. Not that he minds her. He's come to care for her, in the sort of way you would for a pigeon with a broken wing. A little...unstable, but aren't they all?

Then again, she could be right. The OtherEarth did toss him over here anyway, it could have exploded into a billion pieces by now, setting the fate for this one as the same.

_A thousand blackbirds fall from the sky_.

* * *

And miraculously, people begin to listen to his sort-of-friend. Not to him - Draco isn't jealous, or anything - but to her. All those birds, dying at once, it doesn't take a genius to figure out something isn't _quite_ right there. Fucked up, more accurately.

_You could go home_, Maisie consoles him, _after the universe combusts, somehow, you'll go home_. Which makes no fucking sense, because he'll be dead. Dead and gone and _dead_. As will they all.

Besides, he's forgotten what home feels like nowadays.

* * *

_She sets a date_.

As one would set a date for a wedding, Maisie does for the end of the human race. There is no proper _calendar-system_ for them, just what they can count on their fingers and in the stars.

Three nights.

He's often wondered what death feels like. Came pretty damn close to it, during the war. Wanted it, on occasion.

Now he's going to get it.

* * *

She holds him in her arms as they wait for time to cease and he kisses her then, just once, to see what it tastes like. Watermelon. Watermelon and rain and _dying_.

Soon, all they'll be is fragments of stars. Draco panics, because he never got to say goodbye, to anybody, to his mother (the real one, not the OtherMother, the fake) to Blaise, Goyle, his father.

He'll see them on the Other Side, he hopes.

Matthew-Draco-King-Malfoy, the boy with two personalities, expects darkness to come.

_He vanishes instead_.

* * *

_He never believed in the time slips. Until he fell through one_

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter, or the numerous works this was influenced by, including Doctor Who, Coraline and Donnie Darko. Or Ghost of a Corporate Future.

A/N: thanks to deathbysarcasm for requesting, it was a little weird and probably not what you wanted but I hope you enjoyed anyway and to jg2000 and i-overslept for reviewing!


	18. Rain - PercyAudrey

**Rain**

Percy/Audrey

Warnings: actually...none. Unless you count 'damn' as a curse word.

Music: Your song, Elton John

* * *

**One**

She smells of flowers and something else. Something vaguely-reminiscent of better times, of better places, of better people.

It's perfume - he remembers it: a terribly-cheap bottle that he bought for Penelope, that she refused to wear, because of both the cost and the scent. Which he thought was dreadfully intoxicating, but there you go.

He isn't sure how this woman knew his brother, yet here she is, laying flowers at his grave like they were best friends. Maybe they were. Percy can't say that he and Fred told each other everything about themselves.

She looks up and gives him a small, sad smile - in response to which he adjust his glasses nervously and nods at her. If he was capable of flawlessly interacting with random strangers, he would somehow coax her connection to Fred out of her, but he isn't, so he mumble a quick 'hi' and turns away.

"You're Percy, right?"

Is she a Levicorpus? He can't quite imagine how she would know his name otherwise, surely Fred hadn't mentioned him to her?

"How do you know?"

A gentle tilt of the head and an apologetic half-grimace appear to serve as her explanation as she offers a slender hand for him to shake. "Audrey."

Drops of rain begin to fall.

* * *

**Three**

"You're soaked!"

True, he is, exhausted as well, but he pretends not to care as they slide into the coffee shop, dripping with mud and water. It's not a beauty (perhaps not even in the eye of the beholder) yet he begins to appreciate her choice as he settles into an armchair at the back. Warm, but not roasting. One more sentimental than him could describe it as 'cosy.'

Certainly better than that Madame Puddifoot's, back in Hogsmeade. He took Penelope there once. If Audrey had attended Hogwarts, he gets the feeling she would have loathed that shop almost as much as he did.

While she pays for some cheesecake and a swiss roll, he peels of his raincoat and allows a grin to grace his face.

He's been doing more of that lately.

"Thanks, love," he says, then immediately blushes. Is it appropriate to use that word on the third date? Too fast? He would hate to have said something dreadfully premature, especially if it upsets her.

"No problem." _Apparently_ she didn't notice it, but there's a subtle smirk as she hands over his tea. "Are you okay?"

It takes Percy a few seconds to realise she's talking about his encounter with the weather. "Fine."

An awkward tension settles over them, which he's sure is turning his face the worst red imaginable.

Until she leans forward and plants her lips on his. It isn't the first time that she's done that, but it makes him feel...

Strangely better.

* * *

**Four**

"It's been worse."

He stares at the woman in front of him, trying to comprehend how she does it. Withstands all that pain. Which it's pretty clear that she's in, considering all the bruises and scrapes that taint her inside and out.

Percy has never seen her like this before and the cruelest part is that he'll have to do it again. And again. And again.

Until one of them dies, or leaves - though he's pretty sure the latter isn't going to be him. He's realised now, he's in love with Audrey. Maybe that's why she told him. Because she knew he wouldn't leave, that for once in his life he wouldn't be the coward and run, run, run away.

She's a damn sight braver than he is, he'll give her that. Telling him...telling other people, just _being_ who she is, they're things that could potentially get her killed. All of it could. Not everyone is like him. Hell, three or four years ago _he_ wouldn't have accepted her.

Getting to know somebody can really change your opinions and this proves it. Audrey Gilbert is Audrey Gilbert, no matter what anyone says or does to attempt to destroy that.

But...Remus Lupin isn't the _only _werewolf to know Percy Weasley.

* * *

**Two **

Unique.

She's certainly that, he allows, along with a side sprinkling of slightly-insane. Most likely his brother's influence - if Percy ever finds out why they knew each other.

They're standing in a graveyard together, under the clump of trees in the background to escape from the rain, all while she babbles on about the colour green and rabbits.

"The shop," she says suddenly.

"What?"

"That's how I know your brother." She lets a smile flicker briefly through her face. "You were wondering."

Is he _that_ easy to read?

"So you were..." Percy trails off.

"His employee. And friend. He's the only one who would hire me."

He wants to ask why, but fears it's too personal a question to delve into. Tact is, after all, one of his greatest flaws and he truly doesn't want to offend her, no matter how..._vibrant_ she may be.

"He talked about you a lot." Did he? Percy is surprised at this, he and Fred were never close, even bitter enemies for a point.

"Complaints?" That would make sense. Percy the coward. Percy the traitor. Percy the fucking-Ministry-rat.

Her nod makes his heart sink a little in his stomach.

"I'm not a terrible person." He doesn't know why he feels the need to justify himself to her, but he does it anyway. "I just...made terrible choices."

"I understand." No, she doesn't. Nobody understands, not really - he's starting to realise that. "If you want to talk at any time...here's my address. You can owl."

"Yeah. Yeah, I might take you up on that."

Not really. He has no intention of doing so. Percy doesn't need Audrey Gilbert in his life and that's that.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter, or Your Song

A/N: Thanks to **deathbysarcasm** for the review/request, I hope you enjoyed! Also to **jg2000** \- Dean/Luna will be posted next!


	19. Maybe - DeanLuna

**Maybe**

Dean/Luna (and a tiny, tiny, tiny amount of Seamus/Lavender)

Warnings: DH spoilers

Music: _Better_, Regina Spektor

* * *

"He's up to something."

"Who?"

Luna blinks at you, those long, curly eyelashes fluttering over her wide, nearly-vacant eyes. As if she can't believe you haven't caught on by now. "Harry, of course."

"Do you think it has to do with the...?"

A gentle smile flickers onto her face. One that somehow seems to say 'isn't it obvious?' "There's going to be a battle. Something to do with that. Griphook is involved."

"Griphook?"

"Haven't you noticed?"

_No_, you suppose, _no you haven't_. "What?"

"All the whispers. They're planning something."

With a flourish of her wand, she sets the bed right and leaves the room. _Maybe_, you think, _Luna Lovegood isn't as oblivious as she seems_.

* * *

Her cheeks are wet with tears, a strange sight to behold, for you've often thought that she is too innocent to cry, too detached from the rest of the world to notice almost anything at all.

"What do you think happened to daddy?"

"I don't know," you answer honestly, feeling both aloof and foolish, two of the traits you despise the most. "I'm sure he's safe."

You aren't, but everyone deserves a lie from time to time.

"He was just trying to protect me." The way she says it...it's almost as if she's trying to convince herself. "He didn't _mean_ to."

_Maybe_, you think, _you shouldn't believe quite **everything** Ron, Hermione and Harry say_.

* * *

"They left," she points to the door, "this morning."

"So they're gone?"

Luna nods her head.

"Where?"

"Somewhere important." That's all she tells you, with no indication of whether or not she knows _where_ this important place is.

"To do with..."

"You-know-who?"

So you're finishing each other's sentences now. Huh. "Yeah."

"Knowing them," she pulls the toast out of the toaster and begins to butter it, expression still dreamy, "it would be."

"Do you think - " you stop to taste the words in your mouth, how strangely distant they seem, "that it will end?"

"All things end, Dean."

_Maybe_, you think, _she is __right_.

* * *

You know it's her before she takes her seat. 'The wrackspurts' she would say, 'you can sense them in me.'

Honestly, you don't know if wrackspurts exist, but you've come to recognise that faint smell of freesias wherever it goes.

"Lavender," you tell her, with no other explanation. There's none needed, not now, at least. After the battle, it's fairly easy to read between the lines. "Seamus is inconsolable."

"She hid my shoes, once."

You feel an odd mixture of dislike and pity for Luna in that minute. It's not a typical (a word one could never use to describe Luna Lovegood) reflection of the dead, certainly not one you would voice aloud. Lavender was your friend. She deserves sympathy.

But then, you remember. How people used to tease Luna, how they saw her as something...freakish, rather than unique. Even you - you knew to avoid her before you two ever spoke.

Guilt, guilt, guilt.

"She had a nice smile."

The statements aren't related, or linked, or different in any way other than the words. Spoken simply, with a caring edge to her tone of voice.

_Maybe_, you think, _you should have stood up for her._

* * *

You don't see her for a while after that. Commitments, family, Seamus... it's all too much. Besides, you weren't even friends. Not really. Not _truly_. You were just stuck together by the circumstances.

She would call it fate, but you would call it Voldemort.

Her voice seems far away now. You can barely remember it's texture, but you still know the feel of it, off by heart.

It's been two months. You can still etch out the lines of her face with your finger, still describe that scent with your eyes tightly-shut.

Sometimes, you can imagine she's right there beside you. That might be crazier than Luna herself.

_Maybe_, you think, _you miss her_.

* * *

All those silvery-blonde strands seem to glide across her face and some part of you wants to lean out and touch them. Tuck one behind her ear. Take her face in your hands and -

"How are you?"

She doesn't look at you. Just glances towards the lake. You aren't sure how you feel about this. Hurt, probably.

"Luna?"

"I missed you," she tells you, as if it's an everyday fact of life. "Dean Thomas."

"I did the same." You sound stupid, flawed, ignorant. The words are confusing and jumbled and you can barely force them out, for fear of -

Well, you're not sure. That's how you feel around Luna. Confused. Scared. Yet...like you never want to leave. Sort of an adrenaline rush type thing, if it were bigger and far more complicated.

"But with you, I mean," you inch closer to the lake, slightly further from her. "Not with me."

"Things are peaceful now," she observes, pointing towards Hogwarts in the distance, "happy."

"It ended."

"It did."

A thick, but not-altogether-unpleasant air of silence sweeps over the both you.

Courage, being a Gryffindor, is always something you've greatly desired. Wanted. Needed. So you do it, without thinking, like it's air, like it's breathing.

"How would you feel if I were to - ?"

"Kiss me?"

Finishing each other's sentences. Huh.

"Go ahead."

_Maybe_, you think, _you are falling in love_.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter, or _Better_, by Regina Spektor

**A/N**: Thanks to **jg2000** for reviewing (yeah that was my favourite line too!) and requesting this pairing, (as always, hope you liked it) as well as **deathbysarcasm **for reviewing (I thought there might be a reason why she wasn't at Hogwarts!) and requesting. George/Angelina will be up soon, I promise!


	20. Poetry - GeorgeAngelina

**Poetry**

George/Angelina

Warnings: the word fuck makes a very frequent appearance...death, DH spoilers, suicide, depression, alcohol abuse

Music: The Reasons Why, _the Cure_

* * *

The words rhyme. 'Fred' and 'dead.' Fred, dead. Dead, Fred. Maybe you're just really fucking drunk right now, but it's sort of poetic, in a way.

Except poetry is for fucking losers like Percy (Percy, _Percy_ who _killed_ him) and it won't bring your brother back, not ever.

* * *

"Wake up."

"No."

It's her. Angelina. Who pretends to understand, pretends to help you, but all it is is lying through her teeth. Both of you are broken and neither one can fix the other. And she doesn't know what it's like for you. Nobody does.

He's _gone_.

* * *

"I'll drag you out of there myself."

"Go ahead."

Your tone is childish in a way - daring her to stick those long, skinny arms underneath the pale green sheets and pull you out. She might be able to, actually.

You're a hell of a lot weaker than you used to be.

* * *

"You need to stop drinking."

"I notice the faint stench of hypocrisy right now."

Angelina looks nervous, as though you've discovered some great secret of hers. "I _stopped_. You'll kill yourself, George."

Did she ever consider that maybe you _want_ to die?

* * *

"I miss him too."

They dated. It's different. She'll never ache for him like you do, she didn't lose half of herself when that laugh stopped short, she doesn't wake up thinking that he's still in the bed opposite.

He can't think of anything nice to say, so he tells the truth.

"No, you don't."

* * *

_Fuck_, it hurts.

Fuck, fuck, _fuck_.

"Fuck." It feels good to say that. Right, even. Like you're finally, _finally_ letting things out. "_Fuck_!"

"George?" Her. Your brother's ex-lover. Why won't she leave you _alone_? That's all you are nowadays anyway, without Fred. The lonely one.

The just-one-half-of-a-person.

* * *

"George?"

"No need to sound so worried, I won't kill you." You could, if you put the effort in. If you wanted to do it, you would. If you _cared _enough to pull out your wand and fire. You don't.

"George?"

"Yes, darling?" Darling. That's what Fred used to call her. Sarcastically, of course.

"George, get down from the roof."

* * *

"Why shouldn't I jump?"

"He wouldn't want you to."

"_Fred_ is dead, _darling_," you drawl out the words, making them long, long, _longer_. "He doesn't _want_ anything."

"I thought you were brave," she's almost crying now and you pity her for actually bothering with someone like you, "You wouldn't - "

Oh, but you would.

* * *

Stumbling, stumbling, stumbling, _fuck_ you're drunk. Angelina lets lets out a shout as you're faced with the city view - all those twinkling muggle lights down there, all those happy, innocent _people_.

And suddenly, you want to throw up.

"Come here."

She pulls you into her arms, where you are safe, where you are _warm_ and the both of you sob into the night.

* * *

"Get rid of the firewhisky."

"Why are you in my house?" 'Why is she in your _bed?'_ would be the the better question, but you feel like it would be inappropriate to ask and quite frankly, _you don't want to know_.

"Pour it all down the sink."

"Nice try, but I prefer my alcohol muggle. Scotch has a certain quality to it - "

"I'm worried about you."

"Aren't we all?"

* * *

It goes. It all goes. Vanishes in the day, probably some overly-complicated spell you forgot to learn in Hogwarts. Apparently, she's charmed every pub in the country to bar you from entering.

You doubt this, but you don't feel like testing the waters.

"You banning anything else, _mother_?"

"Maybe I _should_ call Molly in - "

With that, Angelina discovers a secret weapon.

* * *

"Fuck off."

"Your mother - "

"Fine, fine, stay," you shift yourself up the couch, "I'm not doing anything important anyway."

"You look so thin. Have you been eating properly?"

You nod your head yes, even though the answer is no.

"I'll order pizza."

* * *

"How's the shop?"

Shop. _Shop_. It takes a while before you remember what she's talking about. _Oh_.

You can't go back there. Not after -

"Closed."

"Are you going to re-open it?"

_No_, is your first answer, but then you reconsider. "Not yet."

* * *

"How are you, George?"

"How are _you_, mum?"

Molly looks taken aback at that. "Fine, fine, you know how it is."

"Of course."

Oh look. You're the first of the family to arrive. How very _brotherly_ of you.

* * *

"Ron, Bill, Charlie, Ginny, it's great to see you all."

You take some kind of sick pleasure in watching Percy's face fall, especially when your mother doesn't seem to notice.

Good. Traitor. Murderer. He doesn't deserve the title of 'family,' when Fred doesn't belong on that list anymore.

* * *

"Percy thinks you hate him." Angelina's tone is disapproving (not like you _care_) but also...like she's sad. Or she pities you. One of those.

"Since when did you and my brother have _regular talks_?"

"He came to me. He was upset."

"He has no right to be."

She doesn't say anything after that.

* * *

"You might as well move in, you're here often enough." It's meant as sarcasm, but you wouldn't really mind it if she did.

"Maybe I will."

"Is that a threat?"

"Possibly."

* * *

It's a gradual process, starting with her staying overnight, to leaving her bags on the kitchen table, to her moving her bed into the other room.

Where _he_ used to sleep.

You don't say anything of it. Neither does she.

* * *

"Percy says the two of you patched things up."

There isn't a response from you, mainly because you can't think of anything witty to say.

"I'm pleased."

"I didn't do it for you."

It's not _entirely_ a lie.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter, or The Reasons Why

A/N: Thanks to jg2000 for this request, I hope you enjoyed it!


	21. Joke - FredKatie

**Joke**

Fred/Katie

Warnings: dark, DH spoilers (does it count as spoilers when the books been out for like six years?) alcohol, one-night-stands, death, swear-words.

Music: Back to Black, Amy Winehouse_  
_

* * *

When Fred dies, you twist and snap and crumble and _break_.

* * *

You're fragile like that. Easily torn apart, so very _vulnerable_, because you can give it but you can't take it.

Angelina is worse. Angelina is practically dying of heartache and oh, isn't it just Romeo-and-Juliet _tragic_?

But you - well, he never loved _you_.

Never thought of you as anything more than little-Katie-Bell, the girl with the big smile and even bigger dreams, (except dreams don't come true, you know that now) the happy-go-lucky-fucking-_optimist_.

You're not. Not any more, at least.

Angelina lost her heart (it sounds like a nursery rhyme, or one of those stupid muggle songs) when that laugh fell slightly short, when those beautiful (even now, you admit) lips stopped moving, but yours vanished four years ago.

When he picked _her_.

* * *

The joke was on you, really.

For thinking you could ever be anything better than second-best. Second-best chaser (sorry, Alicia) second-best daughter, second-best Potions student.

No, because you're Katie Bell and you're _inferior_. It's part of who you are - the nobody. The runner-up. The so-close-but-not-nearly-good-enough type of girl.

Who cries when she comes just second in the year. Who wishes more than anything that she was her big sister. Who smashes mirrors over the reflection inside of them.

Who loses a boy to her best friend.

* * *

You don't cry at the funeral. That would be far too dignified for the likes of _you_.

You scream, you howl, you curse.

It's only natural - you're one of his friends. Everyone else is doing it. George - who shows up piss-drunk - has to be removed.

Because he's dead. Nobody gets (if he could be classified as a prize to be won) him now, not you, not Angelina - because he's in that coffin, six-feet-under, those brown, _brown_ eyes glassy and unmoving.

It's a lose-lose situation if you will, because Fred is -

Fred is -

_Gone_.

* * *

Look at you, feeling sorry for yourself. Getting totally-fucking-wasted and ending up in some nameless man's bed.

You're a _martyr_, Katie Bell and don't you _ever_ forget it.

Because what you went through is _so_ much more painful than George. Or Angelina. Or any of the other people he actually-fucking-cared about.

What were you to him? A casual acquaintance? A cheap laugh?

You work it out in your head one night, how many people he valued above you. The people he would drop you in a heartbeat to go spend time with instead. It's almost amusingly depressing, watching the number go up and up and up.

Because you're a hopeless loser like that, clinging onto the past - clinging onto something that's been and done, someone who never even _liked_ you, let alone loved you.

It's something of thirteen or fourteen, (depending on where you'd place Percy) fourteen people he loved more than you, Katie Bell.

You didn't even make the top ten.

* * *

Didn't he try and set you up with Oliver, once?

Isn't it _ironic_, don't you think, how blind he was to your puppy-love, to your gaze of adoration, to your foolish attempts to get him to fucking _notice_ you?

Because he was so deeply in love with _her_, all you were to him was the brunette-bitch in the background, the girl who was kind-of-sort-of-okay at chasing, just another player in Quidditch.

So you go to the bar again, act like a super-horny-_slut_ and get up the next day with some stranger's arm wrapped around your waist.

It's okay.

It helps you forget.

* * *

Do you remember that time you thought he could love you back?

It was something small, 'I like your hair' and that he carried your books to Charms for you. But you thought it meant something more, something special, that he could maybe, possibly -

Only you, Katie Bell, only you.

You're too selfish to even entertain the idea people do things to be nice, because you've never been it. Always jealous, always alone. So damn _bitter_ about your life.

It's no wonder he didn't want you.

Does anybody?

* * *

Oh, Katie Bell, you think you're a tragedy, but you're not.

You're just a stupid little dreamer, pining for something you never had in the first place.

Like your _dignity_.

Yes, you lost that when you practically _threw_ yourself at him in your fifth year, that night, after you drank far, far too much firewhisky, when you tried to kiss one of your best friend's boyfriend.

Except he turned you down, didn't he? Always, _always_ the same. He _rejected_ you.

Never told anyone because he was a good person.

And you? Well, you're just a _bitch_.

* * *

God, you sicken me, Katie Bell. Just look at yourself in the _mirror_.

You're disgusting.

(wipe the puke out of your hair, would you?)

You're pathetic.

(yearning for a ghost)

You're worthless.

(he _never_ loved you)

Do you see it, Katie Bell? Do you realise?

The joke isn't on you. The joke _is_ you.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter, or Romeo and Juliet, or Back to Black (Amy Winehouse) Oh, or Ironic, by Alanis Morissette - the reference is fairly easy to spot.

**A/N**: I feel so horrible after writing that. I would probably never be that mean.

Thanks to **A Reviewer** for the request and review, I'll take your advice into account! Yeah, I got told that before, I should probably go back and edit chapter one.

Review/request?


	22. Charmed - ?

**Charmed**

?/?

Warnings: kind of dark, swearing, sexual references

* * *

His skin is so very pale, face etched into that knowing frown (she wonders if he saw it coming, before it happened) forever now as he lies there, deathly (if she could, she would laugh at the pun) still, body limp inside the mahogany coffin, where he will lie for the rest of time.

Without her beside him, without her warm, sticky hand to curl around his ice-cold one, tiny (for twenty, she's relatively petite) fingers clutching onto his rough, large ones.

She imagines a Romeo and Juliet like scenario, where she is there beside him, her own eyes still and crystal-clear, lips unmoving.

Would she have died for him?

_Maybe_, she ponders, _maybe not_. The answer would also be true to the question of '_did he ever love her_?' because indeed, he had told her so (twice, she notes) but she had never known, not truly, whether he had meant it.

After all, there had always been _her_.

* * *

**Nine Months Before**

"How are you doing?" she takes a butterbeer off the tray and slides it over to him, sipping delicately at her own while he responds.

"Excellent." His eyes - a misty shade of grey - twinkle up at her from behind hismug, hands darting out to play with a lock of her hair.

"We can't." It's a whisper, because it takes a whole lot of self-control to say it, but she _has_ to, she can't risk breaking three - maybe four - hearts in the process of _them_, them as a couple, them holding hands, them kissing in public.

She wants to be _them_ so badly, but she can't.

"Not here." He mutters in her ear. "I know a place."

Secrecy and lies.

Their favourite hobby.

So they stride out together, fingers so close they could be entwined and in the bitter autumn she wonders why - when it comes to them - things always have to be so _complicated._

* * *

**Ten Months Before**

He's leaning in towards her, their lips veering ever closer, so close that they could -

But they shouldn't.

They _mustn't_.

She draws back, just a little, shaking her head free - because she's so utterly _confused: _about him, about everything.

So he does what he does best, turns on the charm, compliments her hair, tells her that she's 'beautiful,' makes her feel _special._

Just like that, she forgets that she has a boyfriend, that he's two years younger than her and does something very, _very_ stupid. _  
_

She kisses him.

He tastes like sin and chocolate, of broken promises and macaroons, so deliciously disgraceful it makes her heart pound faster.

Hesitantly, she breaks apart and wipes the lipgloss off of his mouth, to be met with those pleading puppy-dog eyes and imploring smile.

That smile that hides a question - _the_ question.

To which she answers with a foolish little nod of the head - '_yes_.'

* * *

**Eight Months Before**

"Why didn't you tell me?" Her voice - it isn't raised exactly - but it shakes, with fear or rage, neither can tell. "You could get _hurt_."

"_Could_." He stresses, caressing her cheek with the palm of his hand. "But _won't_."

Oh, how the irony _stings_ eight months later.

"You _might_."

"How optimistic of you. I'm starting to think you _want_ me to die." It's said in a teasing way, but she catches the flash of annoyance in his face and the harsh spit of the last word (the one she can barely bring herself to say) and it scares her, just a little bit.

"Of course not - I would never - " He catches her stutter and for a second, it looks as though he is about to sneer, but then (as sudden as a blink) he switches back to caring and loving, continues to cradle her with the warmth she knows him for.

But she remembers.

* * *

**Eleven Months Before**

She runs into him that summer, in an alleyway, just as she's exiting her boyfriend's house, after a fight.

Bumps into him, to be more precise, sends the cinnamon bun he's holding flying into the street, where it quickly becomes coated in a layer of rainwater and filth, much to her embarrassment.

"I'm so sorry." Then she meets his gaze and face flushed, realises she _knows_ this person, from Hogwarts and immediately the humiliation grows. "You live around here?"

"Yeah." he says, dazzling-white grin (she admits later, that it's his best asset) still apparent on his features. "I didn't know you came from here either."

"Oh, I don't live here, I was just visiting - "

"I think you owe me a cinnamon bun." He interrupts, (bad habit of his) beckoning for her to follow him down the pavement, which she does, somewhat willingly.

That is the first of many, many, many mistakes.

* * *

**Six Months Before**

"How's _he_?" His tone is a little rough and it does exactly what he was aiming for - makes her heart ebb away a bit, makes her feel sorry for him.

Before she remembers. "How's _she_?"

"Don't play that game with me, _love_." He gives a sharp, resentful laugh. "Her and I haven't even fucked yet."

Her voice comes out in a small squeak. "Neither have _we_."

Not her and her _boyfriend_, that for sure - they must have slept together about a hundred times, each time soft and slow, like making _love._

She doesn't think she'll get that with _him_.

Those eyebrows raise slightly, as he pretends to ponder over the comment. "Well, I guess we need to change something then."

He attacks her mouth with his own, his kisses rough and angry, not like his usual sweet nature, before dragging her over to the bed.

Decisions have never really been her strong point.

* * *

**Seven Months Before**

"This is cheating."

"Great observation." He tucks a strand of hair behind his ear, before dusting her nose with his lips, in an almost..._patronising_ manner.

"What about _her_?" Her mind conjures up the small, beaming dark-haired girl and she gets the urge to punch something - an oddity, for the usually calm and collected former head girl.

It's hypocritical, she knows, after all, this is a torrid little affair for _both_ of them, not anything more, except maybe - maybe, it _could_ be.

"What about her? I don't love her. Not like you."

It's almost an 'I love you,' sort-of, (he's always been an expert at that, twisting words) but close enough, for her at least.

She struggles to stand up - because the broom closet is a _really_ uncomfortable place to make out - gripping onto him for support, which is when she tells him the most idiotic thing she can.

"I love you too."

* * *

**Twenty-One Months Before**

It's patrols that she first meets him, as her randomly assigned partner for the year. She doesn't even notice him at first, the only thing on her mind is - '_Merlin, I need coffee_' until he decides, quite unexpectedly, after the first hour to properly introduce himself.

"Hi." The sound startles her and she whips her head round to look at the boy behind her, who is already flashing her a charming smirk (the kind that could make a girl melt) and is offering a hand for her to shake.

"Um, hey." She's not exactly great at the whole 'conversation' thing, but if she's going to be stuck with this guy for the whole year, she'd better make an effort, right?

"I'm Cedric." Those eyes practically _glitter_ with...something, as he grasps her hand in his. "Charmed."

"Penelope."

"Oh I know." He tilts his head back and gives a small laugh. "Believe me."

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter.

So, what did you think? Reviews/pairing requests would be great, thanks.

I wrote this because my Headcanon Cedric is secretly a manipulative bastard for some reason. I think it shows. : )


	23. Drunk - FredOC

**Drunk**

Fred/OC

Warnings: swearing, alcohol (a shitload of it) some very blatant sexual references and it's just generally depressing. AU where Fred lived. Oh, and the A/N is kinda long, but the last bit is (slightly) important!

Music: Sometime Around Midnight, _the_ _Airborne Toxic Event_

* * *

Alcohol is a quick fix to all his problems.

(not really, it just takes away the pain for a minute or two)

His heart doesn't hurt anymore - then again, his head is beginning to. Still not enough. Fred wants to drink until her name has vanished from the tip of his tongue, until 'Clara' is David Copperfield's mother and not _her._

Fuck, if he concentrates hard enough, he can smell her perfume. 'Crystal' or some bullshit like that. '_A vague sense of mint and coconut_.'

The firewhisky made him feel special at first. Now, after his third or fourth glass, he just feels lost. Out of touch.

And she appears, like a fucking _angel_ (what the hell is she doing in Cornwall?) one hand outstretched, his name on her (perfect, perfect, _perfect_) lips.

Except Fred doesn't want her help, because fuck, she broke his heart and if he didn't deserve her before, he doesn't deserve her now.

"Didn't know pubs were your thing."

"They're not." She can barely look him in the eye. How _promising_.

"Then why exactly are you here?"

"George. He's worried about you." Wow. Fred never thought that would happen. Someone actually giving a damn about him. Especially not his brother, who seems far too preoccupied with his _perfect wife_ and his _perfect job_ and _perfect family_.

"Are you fucking him now too?"

Of course she isn't. He just says it so she feels at least _some_ pain, some idea of what he's been going through.

"I'm not _fucking_ anyone."

How _insensitive_ of him.

"Oh, right, _right_, forgive me, what you and McLaggen do is _'making love_.'"

"We're not involved," Clara repeats, eyes steely.

"Really? Because where I was standing - "

"You really think I would cheat?"

Some small part of him wonders. "Absolutely."

"This is _why_ we broke up."

Just when he thought he couldn't hurt any harder.

"Oh, so the whole 'it's not you, it's me,' speech was a lie?" Fred asks bitterly, before gesturing to the bartender. "Yeah, another firewhisky please."

He could really banter with her forever, but honestly, he's _tired_. Sarcastic quips don't make him feel any less torn, any more whole. Maybe even more empty than when he started. Then again, he might just be one of those really depressing drunks, like Bukowski, that old poet guy.

(hey, didn't he end up dying?)

Clara snatches it off of him before he can gulp it down.

"Lighten up."

Or will she get mad at that? He needs to 'grow up a little' after all.

Maybe the whole theory is true. There's always someone in the relationship who loves the other one more. Well, obviously, otherwise he wouldn't be sitting there, piss-drunk and broken.

"Stop it."

"Why?" There's no reason he shouldn't. His liver probably deserves it for some long-forgotten, petty excuse like the ones she uses against him.

"It isn't going to help."

"Yeah? And what is?" Because currently, he's having a pretty fucking hard time seeing anything that will.

"I didn't - "

"Mean it? You loved me, _heart and soul_, didn't you? And those words, they just slipped out?" Sometimes, he wishes sarcasm was real. "Go back to McLaggen."

"I told you, we didn't - "

Except he's learnt that trusting her is generally a bad idea. Knowing all those lies that come spilling out of her mouth, she probably did. Probably _enjoyed_ it.

"Did you go down on him? I bet he - "

Which is about when her hand meets his cheek. It doesn't sting, not really. She's caused him more pain before without hurting him.

"Hit harder sweetie, I might actually feel something."

"You're disgusting."

"And McLaggen's a fucking saint." Fred's not entirely sure why he's fixated on him. No, wait, he is. All those late night trips and the time she stayed over at his (she swears, _swears_ that nothing happened) how she refuses to accept he has a crush on her, that fucking bastard who just refuses to_ back off_.

He wants to punch him. If he were here, he would. In front of her, even if she'd hate him for it. Fred blames him for Clara breaking up with him, for his relationship falling apart.

It's easier to accept than the truth - it was his fault alone. For being immature. Drunk. Indecisive. Jealous. A general dick. He won't face that reality. He can't. It would break him in two and shatter his heart into a million.

"I hate you." And isn't it so fucking _ironic_? She means it this time. It's not something she spurted out in the middle of a tickle fight, or after he stuck out his tongue at her. Not teasing, not playful. Instead of 'I love you, but you're being annoying,' it's genuinely 'I hate your guts.'

"Yeah," he sets down his drink wearily and turns to face her, "join the fucking club."

She doesn't say anything more after that. Just leaves.

It's what she does best.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter, Sometime Around Midnight (the Airborne Toxic Event) David Copperfield or anything by or relating to Bukowski.

Thanks to:

**chocolatecheesecakes** \- I can name several people more talented, but thanks anyway. : ) I hope you enjoyed this - I assumed you meant FredI but just tell me if I'm wrong. Thinking about it, you might have expected fluff..._whoops_.

**blueice2449** \- I guess opposites attract. I write really weird pairings lol.

**jg2000** \- Haha, that's probably the comment I get the most about my writing. I prefer writing angst tbh. Glad you enjoyed! Yeah, I love obscure pairings. Sure, I'll write NarcissaJames, it'll be up next!

Also, a question to all of you guys (which might get ignored, because nobody reads the A/N) - which oneshot did you like the most/least (so far, anyway)? It would be cool to know and really helpful, thanks!


	24. Morning - NarcissaJames

**Morning**

NarcissaJames

Warnings: (implied) rape, non-graphic sex

Music: Dog Days Are Over, _Florence and the Machine _

* * *

He doesn't remember her in the morning.

(Narcissa has always been good at memory charms)

* * *

The Bewitched Pumpkin is an escape. A world away from Lucius, from her family, the Death Eaters. Nobody knows who she is and nobody gives a shit about it anyway. It's the perfect place to drink away her troubles, to not care about anything at all.

Which is what she does best.

_Not caring_.

* * *

Nostalgia. Nostalgia and lust. To sum it up.

James Potter isn't supposed to be there (it's a dark place, for dark people) but as if by magic, he appears, one lonely Tuesday night in the middle of summer.

Seventeen at most, yet astoundingly tall and (she admits) rather handsome. In his own unconventional way - as charming as an awkward, lanky boy could be.

"Hey, do I know you?" It's his third or fourth drink and the firewhisky appears to have made him finally observant of the space around him.

"No." Short, simple. Why waste all the words you have, all the time you have to fill them in?

It's not a particularly terrible lie - they've never spoken after all. Only seen fleeting glimpses at those dreadful pureblood conventions (at least until the Divide, for the war).

Maybe he knows her face, but not well enough to place a name. He seems the forgetful sort, while Narcissa is eagle-eyed, sharp-minded.

She's careful, to make sure she isn't recognised. It wouldn't be the end of the world, but it provides a slight inconvenience that is a bother to fix.

"Do you want another drink? I'll buy it for you."

And he gives the gullible nod of _yes, yes he does._

* * *

"Lily." The name is repeated several times throughout the night, some mudblood girl he's heartbroken (is anybody lucky in life?) over. "Evans."

The last name is filth, or so Narcissa has been bred to believe, unworthy of even conversation, but she smiles along and pats his shoulder when he looks like he's about to cry.

It's almost amusing - a girl of _her_ status rejecting a pureblood. 'Arrogant" he tells Narcissa miserably (around his seventh or eighth shot) - 'that's what she calls me.'

Narcissa has never and will never care about a man's sense of pride. In her world, they all are. Vain, entitled, spoiled brats, who take, take, _take_, like it's as natural as breathing. Potter seems a mild form at that, but, she supposes, in the muggle (dirty words) society it must be different.

Though, to be fair, he _does_ seem a tad bit annoying.

For the night, her name is Anna, a half-blood (_vaguely related to the Vances_, she bluffs, _but from an Italian family you've probably never heard of_) Dumbledore supporter, who just _adores_ everything muggle and Gryffindor.

Pretending is like a second nature to her.

* * *

"You're kind of pretty." It takes him ten shots to notice, around the point when she's just about to quit. "In an uptight way."

A thinly-stretched smile, because '_kind of pretty, in an uptight way_,' is the compliment she hears most often.

"Thanks."

She isn't, not _really_. Narcissa is the sort of beautiful that is only defined by consuming a lot of alcohol, possibly a beauty if you squint in _that_ light from a _distance_.

It's surprising how many people think she doesn't know that. The ones who constantly remind her of that fact, as if her appearance is something she _owes_ the world - she is there to look good. Nothing else. Her brain is a useless entity - might as well not exist at all.

Three years of practically starving herself got her her figure. Potter is oblivious to that fact, as well as everything else about her.

(slowly, he is seeming to care)

For a while, he doesn't mention Evans.

* * *

They don't talk much. It's a silent affair (perhaps he's too drunk to articulate words) all hands and mouths and _no speaking_. Reminds her of a funeral procession, that's how sombre the mood is.

Still. Not peaceful, but _still_.

It's almost as if it's an everyday action - like collecting the post, or brushing one's teeth, that's how unexcited (a play on words, perhaps) the thing is.

She presumes he is (well, _was_, now) a virgin, so she supposes it wasn't too bad, considering. Okay. Okay-ish.

Average. Definitely not what she was expecting and she thinks the name 'Lily' slipped out there, (he's so wasted, it probably did) but not _terrible_. Just...several stops short of beautiful. Absolutely not _perfect_.

There's probably some kind of significant meaning behind it. '_The joining of two worlds_' - a Slytherin and a Gryffindor. Dark Lord and Dumbledore supporter. If she believed in fate, this would be a pretty big event.

But she doesn't. Never has, never will. Things only happen if you make them happen and this was entirely her fault.

(not that that's a bad thing)

So she leaves, the following morning. Runs back to her role as the ever-dutiful wife, the loving partner to a killer-in-training. To pretending to be interested in the murder of muggles, to hating the very same men as the one she slept with.

It isn't fun, but she's got to do it.

* * *

He doesn't remember her in the morning.

(none of them ever do)

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter, or Dog Days Are Over (Florence and the Machine)

A/N: Thanks for reading! Once again, leave a request/your favourite/least favourite oneshot (of mine) so far!

Thanks to:

**jg2000** \- for requesting this pairing. I hope you enjoyed!

**chocolatecheesecakes** \- glad you liked it!

**Roxiblilly** \- yeah, it's one of my favourites too. Sure I'll do Charlie/Hagrid, bit of a strange pairing, but each to their own I guess.


	25. Him - CharlieHagrid

**Him**

Charlie/Hagrid

Warnings: the squickiest pairing so far. Can I just mention that this was a request? Crack!fic. Definitely, definitely crack!fic. OOTP spoilers, swear words. Bestiality, if you count half-giant as an animal. Except it's unrequited bestiality.

Music: Flaws, _Bastille_

* * *

"Oh, Hagrid," you say softly, applying a cold flannel to the older man's face, "what did you _do_?"

"Giants." He doesn't explain any further than that. To be honest, you don't really want to know.

"Okay."

The atmosphere is sad. Sadder than normal, even though you're with Hagrid. Isn't that supposed to make you cheerful? Or not. Not recently, at least.

Because -

Because -

You can't describe it. Not at all.

(it's stranger than a wrackspurt and more confusing too)

* * *

Hogwarts wasn't great for you. Flaming red hair, love of animals, poor family - you were a freak and you _knew_ it.

But Hagrid - he helped you through it. He was your _friend_. Your _mentor_. The only one who saw you for what you really were.

A person.

* * *

He was the one to recommend Romania. And it broke your heart, (just a little) because it sort-of-meant he wanted you gone. Away in a different country, a thousand miles between the two of you - apparently, he thought that was a good idea.

Even if you didn't want to leave _him_.

* * *

It's inappropriate. Really. Well and truly. Your thoughts shouldn't count for anything, because he's probably asexual anyway -

Then again, people think that about _you_.

Oh, how they would _scream_ if they knew the truth.

* * *

When you were away, it was him. All those times at Hogwarts, it was him. Alone, it was him. Him, Him, _Him_.

Here and now, only a few inches between the two of you, it's him. Just as it's always, always been.

_Hagrid_.

* * *

Your family would disapprove. Hell, your family disapproves of anything and everything. Merlin knows what Percy would think. Fred and George would probably laugh, but that's just them. Bill, Ron - they would be disgusted. You're disgusted at yourself.

Would _anybody_ support it, support _you_?

The sad answer is no.

* * *

You didn't _mean_ to. It snuck up upon you quite by chance. A thought. Nothing more than a thought. That's all it was - all you wanted it to be.

Until it developed into something much more.

It scared you, to be frank. Terrified the living daylights out of you.

And it still does.

* * *

It's the beard, probably. Or the shared gentle nature, how caring he is, how warm, _friendly_.

You can turn to him when there's nobody else and he'll still be natural, good-natured _Hagrid_. Always able to make you smile, at the very brink of impossibility.

* * *

It's more the company than something kinky. That's why they wouldn't understand. Being around Hagrid always makes you...happy. Alive. With anybody, _everybody_ else, you're your usual hollow self.

As if you're dead inside - the feeling he takes away from you.

* * *

Lydia her name was. Soft, blonde, _perfect_.

Except her hands were too small. Hated dragons and hippogriffs and preferred mansions and palaces to cosy little huts. Clean-shaven face and her food was far, far too edible. No accent that makes you want to laugh and beam until your teeth hurt.

She was too tiny (only your height, nothing more).

Too icy.

Too human.

* * *

So you broke up with her. She didn't cry, neither of you did. You suppose she had seen it coming. How you barely looked her in the eye, the enthusiasm you had for taking her to see your parents, relatives, friends.

That's the only reason you had her, really.

She didn't suspect the truth.

Nobody ever does.

* * *

You met for coffee, once. Felt a little guilty - after all, you hadn't told your parents you were back in Britain. Not that they would care. Not you and Lydia. You and _him_.

It's _Him_ forever.

He chuckled at your stories and offered you burnt scones and _oh_, you felt like you were finally home.

* * *

"I'd better get going," you tell him, packing up your stuff, not meeting his eyes. That's become harder as well. "I have a Portkey in the morning. Back to Romania."

"So soon?" And you convince yourself that isn't disappointment in his voice, because you can't bear to face it again. False hope doesn't do well for anyone. Least of all you. That's what it is. False. Fake, fake, _fake_.

Even if it wasn't, you would still be in trouble.

"Yeah." He envelopes you in a warm hug (how red your face must be) and offers you a cake for the journey, which you delicately refuse. "Take care of - " you point to the red swelling on his cheek.

"Goodbye, Charlie." It seems nearly final, but you know you'll see him again. Whatever it takes. You couldn't stand it otherwise. You couldn't stand life.

Is that what it's _supposed_ to feel like?

"Goodbye, Hagrid." Walking out is one of the slowest, most painful processes in the world and the little wave he gives nearly splits your soul in two.

Because, fuck, it _hurts_, but you soldier on. You always do.

Leaving. Going back to Romania.

Without him.

_I love you_, you don't say.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter, or Flaws, _Bastille_.

A/N: This was a little short, (and very weird) but I hope it was still good.

Thanks to:

**chocolatecheesecakes** \- me too. Glad you enjoyed, and you're welcome!

**Roxiblilly** \- thanks for reading, reviewing and requesting, even if it was such a peculiar pairing. I really hope you liked it!

As I said last time, please review and tell me your favourite/least favourite oneshot so far! It would really help, thanks.

Or request. I'd like a couple more requests!


	26. Deja Vu - OliverMarietta

**Deja Vu**

Oliver/Marietta

Warnings: swear words, sort-of cheating on partners and death

Music: Running Up That Hill, Kate Bush

* * *

You're eighteen and war is approaching.

(which kind of makes summer a drag, doesn't it?)

Spending your time convincing yourself you'll be fine isn't exactly a 'sensible' option, but you do it anyway. In between practising how _not_ to get brutally slaughtered, of course. Don't you wish you'd paid attention during the DA now?

Instead of running to Umbridge and confessing everything. Meaning they all hate you. Though, you're sure, they have better things on their minds than _that_ particular incident._  
_

And with that, you flop back on your bed and stay there until morning comes.

* * *

"Marietta, right?"

You blink. Once, twice, then turn around. _Nobody_ knows who you are. Barely anybody, anyway.

"Oliver Wood." He gives an easy-going grin (it's weird - you haven't seen anyone smile in so long) and shakes your hand.

It's familiar - the sort of familiar you can't exactly place, until _Quidditch_ pops into your head and you remember - _Gryffindor Captain_. Makes sense. He has that sort of handshake.

"Um, no offence, but _how_ do you know who I am?"

"Cho's friend?" You have to physically restrain yourself from rolling your eyes at him. Of-fucking-course it's Cho. The better friend. The pretty friend. _That's_ the only reason people know who you are. "Hey, you want to grab a coffee?"

_No_. "Fine."

At least it's something to do.

* * *

"This place is dead."

"There is a _war_," you remind him, taking a delicate sip of your hot chocolate.

"In Glasgow?" Oliver raises an eyebrow.

"Everywhere." You drop a couple of marshmallows in to avoid the uncomfortable silence.

"I didn't know you were Scottish."

"I'm not." Your family is Cornwall-born and proud, but Scotland seems safer, from You-Know-Who. "Are your family..."

"In hiding?" He drops your gaze for a minute or two, then gives a small smile. "No. I came back here for my parents."

"Protection charms?"

"Obviously." Oliver tips a little milk into his tea. "We could die, you know, being out and about."

It isn't something you tend to think of often. "Let them catch us."

* * *

You aren't sure why he picked _you_. To single out. Have coffee (hot chocolate and tea, you both detest actual coffee) with. A familiar face, most likely. All of your friends (and his friends too) are down in England.

Hiding away, like the two of you, but closer to the attack.

He doesn't know you. Not really.

(but he says he wants to)

* * *

The both of you begin to exchange letters. Untraceable, undetectable, _obviously_. You even cast a disillusionment charm on the owl.

Wouldn't want to risk dear old _Buttons_.

He gives you the Secret - trusts you (but you're a SNEAK) - his house, a few streets away from yours, _just in case_.

You don't leave the house again, because of the risk. Of being mercilessly killed. Even if you _are_ a half-blood, they'll still get you.

That's the way it works.

* * *

Smoke and ash.

Your house is burning to the ground.

(guess that Fidelius didn't work out)

"Mum," you say, trying to pull her off the streets, but you aren't strong enough. "Mum, we need to go."

She makes some kind of half-strangled, miserable noise and clutches at the gate, so close (too close) to the flames that for a minute, you're worried she'll catch alight.

The Death Eaters -

Your father -

Where are you going to go?

"Mum," you tug at her arm, ignoring the tears streaking at her cheeks as your heart breaks. "Mum, _please_."

Grabbing her arm and hoping for the best, you swirl away into nothingness.

* * *

"Marietta!"

Oliver studies your face for a second - your eyes avert his uncomfortable gaze and focus on the rest of his family. All intact. Not like yours.

"What's my favourite colour?"

You stumble over the answer, confused as to why he's asking the question. _Green_. _Blue_. "Red."

_For Gryffindor._

He seems to accept this.

"What happened?" It's his mother. _  
_

_Life_, you think of saying, before you chance a glance back at your mother. Whimpering in the corner. Maybe you wish you could do that too. "Death Eaters. They broke the charm."

"Your dad - "

She lets out a sob and even _you_ wince at that. "I think he gave it away. He works - _worked_ for the Ministry. Probably did something they didn't like." A breath, and the world seems to stop with it. "Can...we stay? With you?"

"Don't you have anybody else?" His father's face creases, showing off all of the wrinkles that middle-age caused for him, some distant time ago.

_Cho_. The Changs.

"For a while. Until we get in contact with them." If they _allow_ it, that is.

"You'll have to share a room." Bonnie Wood's eyes are expressionless, but she gives a small smile and gestures upstairs.

"That's fine."

More than, really.

* * *

You both sit awkwardly, side-by-side on the pink and purple bedspread, toying with sheets that had been stretched out by the wash one too many times.

"Where's your mum?"

"Downstairs." _Having tea_, you finish mentally, _and losing a grip on reality_.

"How long do you think it will take Cho?"

"I don't really know." Not long, you hope. His parents don't _seem_ mean, but you're sure they'll be sick of the two of you soon enough. "I'll leave as soon as I can."

"You don't have to - "

"It's okay. I have some money, if you want it."

"I couldn't make you pay."_ Typical Gryffindor_.

"You took me into your house when we barely know each other - "

"You were in trouble." You never wanted a white knight and even Oliver is irritating in the role. "Besides, I know you."

"We met a month ago." In the street, which led to sharing tea and hot chocolate. You remember it well.

"I like you." Impossible, implausible and everything in-between.

"_Nobody_ likes me. It's a well-known fact."

"Why not?"

_Because I betrayed them_, you think, but they hated you before that too. Maybe you're just a heartless bitch.

Maybe the sky is blue and pigs don't fly.

You could explain this to him, but you don't feel like it, so you settle for a shrug instead.

* * *

That first night, your mother screams in her sleep.

"Harold," she says and you pull her into your arms and cradle her like she did with you as a baby. "Harold, where are you?"

_Dead_.

"Mum?"

"Marietta?" The voice isn't hers - it's distinctly male and you don't know whether to let your heart leap or sink. Oliver. _Obviously_."I heard a scream - "

You don't even look at him, just focus on your mother. "Mum? Mum? It's okay, we're - "

"Where am I?"

"We're at - " you glance upwards at the young man (barely out of boyhood) in the doorframe. "A friend's house."

"Where's your father?"

_Dead_.

"The Death Eaters - "

"Oh, _god_."

She seems as though she'll throw up and you don't blame her, not in the least.

"I'll go - "

_Don't_. "Okay."

* * *

"How's - "

"Coping," you finish, because you already knew what he was going to say. "Badly."

"It's my birthday today." It's said in such a melancholy way that you could laugh at it. Or cry. Or both. "Twenty-three."

You...aren't sure of how to reply. "Congratulations."

Three sugars and some milk, carelessly tossed into his tea. "I was going to be a Quidditch player."

"Yeah. We were all _going_ _to be_ something. People younger than you have died."

He takes a step back, dark eyes startled and you've _really_ gone and blown it now, haven't you?

"I'm sorry." That, you don't expect. Probably don't deserve, either.

"So am I," you swallow a small sob. For him. For your father. For the fallen. Maybe even yourself.

You don't cry though. Not ever.

* * *

"Where did you get your scars?"

Oh, _fuck_. Everyone asks this question. The remnants of SNEAK, as you call it privately.

Not all of it - not enough that you can make out the word that once was written there, but that one could trace the curve of the S with their finger, find the three parallel lines of the E, just about figure out that there's an N permanently carved there.

A little like a really screwed up version of dot-to-dot.

You don't want to tell him, but lying seems like a bad option, even if you are exceptional at it. "I did..." you pause and take a deep breath, "I did a bad thing and I got hexed for it."

"Okay."

He doesn't enquire further. For that, you are grateful.

* * *

"Cho's family said we could stay with them."

"That's great." His mouth doesn't stretch into a smile. "When are you leaving?"

_As soon as_. "Tomorrow." You pop a cherry into your mouth and ignore his stare. Ignore him in general. Actually, thinking about it - you kind of _want_ to go. Things with the two of you and his parents and your mum - they're..._strange_.

"You don't have to go that soon." You try and convince yourself he doesn't sound disappointed. Because he _can't_ be. Who would _want_ you around?

"I think your mum and dad would disagree."

"They like you." Oh, what a _terrible_ liar Oliver is.

"_Nobody_ likes me. It's a well-known fact," you repeat from your conversation a week ago, well-aware of how close he's getting. For some reason, personal space doesn't seem like too much of an issue anymore.

"I do."

He tilts your chin up with his fingers. Lungs. Sand. It's like there's sand filling up your lungs and for a second or two, you forget to breathe, because you've seen this happen. Had it happen before to you. But it can't be -

He leans down towards you, fingers still balanced upon your cheek. It feels a little odd, because he's medium-tall and you're...well, _not_, (there are a few inches between the both of you) but that's all swept away once he presses his lips against yours.

Briefly. Momentarily. Too little time to be considered a proper kiss, really.

You've said repeatedly that you don't like confrontations. Never have, never will.

So you run away.

* * *

"Mum, we're leaving!"

She emerges from your shared spare-room, eyes red-rimmed (no change there then) and vacant, but mouth confused. "I thought that we were going tomorrow?"

"Change of plans." Brought on by one very confusing, ambiguous kiss that you totally left hanging in the middle. Bloody fucking Merlin, he's probably coming up the stairs right now -

You tug at her arm (today's deja vu is getting a little out of control) and think of the Chang house as you disapparate into the air.

* * *

"I know I'm a burden to you."

It's desperately heartbreaking to hear that coming from your own mother's mouth, which is when you realise how much of a _bitch_ you've been to her. Losing your father - the two of you were never that close, but for her, it must have been like having a piece of herself ripped away without explanation.

"You're not," you say truthfully, already feeling the tears starting to well. Which is terribl. You _never_ cry. "I love you, mum."

_You're_ the burden. To her, to the Changs, (right now, at least) you were to the Woods and to the world in general.

"I miss him."

A salty drop of water slides into your mouth and it doesn't take a genius to work out what it is. Suddenly, you feel guilt. Over not having mourned enough. Your father _died_, for fuck's sake and maybe you're just too heartless to let that sink in. At least, until now. "I do too."

* * *

"Is everything okay?" Cho doesn't really seem thrilled at having you at her home (not displeased either...just neutral) so you suppose even this is reluctant, but it doesn't go unappreciated. "With the house and..." she waves her hand to signify '_all the other bullshit_.'

"Yeah. Fine."

Silence. Your friendship, you suppose, has always been built on dependence and reliability rather than the enjoyment of each other's company. After all, you _are_ a SNEAK. "Where did you stay before?"

"Um, you know Oliver Wood?"

Cho gives a nod, looking kind of surprised. You don't blame her. "Are you two dating?"

"No."

Her tone is accusing, in a simultaneously friendly and bitchy way. "You want to be though."

"We kissed. I bolted. It's not a healthy starting point." You rake a hand through your hair, as you often do when nervous. Except this isn't butterfly-nerves. It's more of a slow ache.

"You should write to him."

* * *

Oliver,_  
_

_I'm fine. Physically, at least. Mum is too. I thought that you should know. _

_I'm sorry, as well. For...you know..._

_I have trust issues. I don't let people get too close. Merlin knows I'm not loyal - I would've made a bloody terrible Hufflepuff. _

Marietta

* * *

Oliver,

_You didn't reply to my last letter. Maybe you didn't get it. Maybe you're ignoring me. I'll keep writing anyway. _

Marietta

* * *

Oliver,

_I get it. I'm an evil bitch and I fucked things up royally. But I need to know you're okay. Not hurt. Can't you write back? So I know you're not lying in a gutter somewhere, dead and it's all my fucking fault?_

_It's been three months. I'm worried_.

Marietta

* * *

You don't get a reply.

* * *

"You!" You fling a finger at the sky, not caring how foolish you look. You're alone, anyway. Then again, you always are. "You've fucked me over too many times to hurt him!"

Merlin, you're _crying_ again. "Don't," you murmur, "don't hurt him. If you hurt him, I'll - "

A million things rush through your mind, but none that you could actually _do_. Idle threats have always been your type of bargain.

"Keep him safe." It's a whisper, because you can't muster anything more. "I know I don't deserve it, but keep him safe."

* * *

Battle.

And so the war reaches a climax.

You're going to fight. They probably don't want you there, but you're going to do it. You're going to fight for someone who hates your guts. Because you're sick of running away like a fucking coward.

For once in your life, you're going to act like a Gryffindor. Even though you're a Ravenclaw. But the point remains.

You're going to fucking fight, and Potter is going to win the damn war.

* * *

Bellatrix Lestrange just threw a curse at your head (missed, by the way) and you don't _really_ care.

"Oliver!" It's him. You know it is. It _has_ to be. Not some delusion, a hallucination that your mind has pathetically concocted out of need. It's real. It's him. "Oliver!"

Oh, Lestrange's aim is _splendid_.

_Oliver_, you think, before slipping off to..._somewhere_.

* * *

Is this what dead feels like?

* * *

"Marietta."

Why the _fuck_ is Madam Pomfrey in Heaven?

"Marietta, are you awake?" Of course you're bloody awake -

Oh, _Merlin._ You're alive. As in, not dead. As in, you're ALIVE and god, it feels _good_. "Did Potter win?" Except it comes out as more 'id otter mmmn' - because your mouth is surprisingly _numb_.

"Yes," she says briskly, tossing another blanket over you, which you struggle against. You aren't cold. Boiling hot, actually.

"How am I not - ?"

"You're lucky. You weren't hit by the killing curse - it was something tamer, but still of great damage. Were these scars here in the first place?"

(SNEAK)

"Yes," you say distractedly. Him. Over in the corner, visiting someone-or-other, but still Him, unless the after-effects of one of her potions has really taken it's toll on you. It's Him. "Oliver!"

He doesn't turn around. You don't blame him. You never do.

* * *

...

...

...

...

* * *

You're preoccupying yourself with the firewhiskey - a little habit you have to avoid actually _talking_ to people. Not enough to get you completely, balls-out drunk, but you are slightly tipsy. Maybe enough to snog a stranger and feel regret over it.

Oh, _god_.

There's someone you haven't seen in four years. And pretended not to think about, either. What a fucking small world after all. Shit. Bugger. _Fuck_. _Fuck_. _Fuck_.

Hopefully Oliver won't notice you. Hopefully you'll stay in your little corner for now, then sneak out just before midnight. That's the part of New Year's you really hate, after all. Hopefully it'll all be fine, if you just keep calm and drink -

HE'S HEADING YOUR WAY! DON'T KEEP CALM! PANIC! PANIC! PANIC!

But he ignores you. Very much. Doesn't even spare a glance and you're safe - for now.

"Oh," (_shitbuggerfuck_) he says, accidentally brushing against you as he leans towards the bar, "I'm sorry."

He doesn't recognise you. Of-fucking-course.

For that, you're a little bit grateful.

"Hey, you look familiar..." (_damnitalltohell_) Oliver turns to you, a contemplative frown on his face and fuck, he looks good, not that you noticed that or anything.

"No I don't."

"Yeah, you do."

"No, I don't."

"Tell me your name."

"Marietta." You wince, waiting for the lecture, or the 'you broke my heart' speech, or at least the 'maybe we should catch up.' But there's none. "We kissed?"

(_fuckfuckfuck_)

You clap a hand over your mouth and wait for the shit to hit the fan. Did you sound desperate? Yes, you sounded desperate. Pathetic and lonely. Like you haven't dated anyone since, which, for the record, you _have_.

"I remember now," his face creases into a smile, the kind of smile that could both kill someone and bring them back to life. "You left."

"Yeah." Wow. Your cowardice really _does_ define you.

He shrugs. "No grudges, right?"

Nope. None. None whatsoever. "So...um...how are you?"

"Good." He points to a girl in the crowd and you instantly know what's coming. What always comes. If you weren't focused on his imminent announcement, you could make a dirty joke out of that, but even in that dirty joke, you would be the third wheel. "That's my girlfriend, Nancy."

Maybe it's creepy that you feel hurt after four years. Over a boy _you_ rejected. Maybe it's just in your nature. "Cool."

Thin, blonde, pretty much society's definition of perfect...

"So how do you know Sinead?"

"She's my first cousin. It was kind of a pity invite." You don't know _why_ he laughs. It's the _truth_.

"You haven't changed, have you?"

"I thought you couldn't remember me?"

He downs his drink and calls for another. "It's all coming back to me, unfortunately."

You should be annoyed, but you kind of _aren't_.

* * *

"Marietta?" Oliver gives a lopsided grin - the sort that tells you he's about to say something...significant. "It's tradition."

"Where's Nancy?"

"The loo."

"Won't she - "

"Nope."

"TEN!"

Oh god, you're going to do this, aren't you, Marietta? Make a fool of yourself with your ex. Who has a girlfriend. Another totally-platonic kiss, for no reason other than New Year's.

"NINE!"

You feel a little sick. No, scrap that, you feel a _lot_ sick. Throwing up sick. Maybe you shouldn't have had that firewhiskey. Yeah, that was a terrible idea.

"EIGHT!"

He's leaning in closer. Merlin, why does he always do that?

"SEVEN!"

You read about him in the Prophet, you remember, last year or so. It's only coming back to you _now_ of all times. He's a Quidditch player, like he said. You haven't achieved any of your Hogwarts-ambitions, you're just stuck in a terrible job that you hate with a terrible love life -

"SIX!"

Closer -

"FIVE!"

Holy fucking shit, he's actually going to do it.

"FOUR!"

Holy fucking shit, _you're_ actually going to do it.

"THREE!"

Deja vu, you decide, is the best and worst thing on the planet.

"TWO!"

You brace yourself.

"ONE! HAPPY NEW YEAR!"

His mouth collides against yours, rougher than last time, tasting of firewhiskey and Sinead's canapés but still strangely wonderful, until you both pull away for air - lack of oxygen is, after all, terribly dangerous.

And just like last time, (_deja fucking vu_) you leave without saying goodbye.

* * *

"I knew it was you."

You meet for coffee (_again_) eleven months or so later (near enough to Christmas-time) after bumping into each other on the street (_oh, nostalgia_) this time in London.

Which is a pretty big place, but you still managed to find each other. If you believed in fate, you would call it that. Maybe he's just stalking you.

"What?"

"That night - I didn't forget who you were. How could I _ever_ forget Marietta Edgecombe?"

His confession startles you - the fact that he lied, how you _believed_ him, why he would bother...

"I hated you," he continues, "for walking out that day. Without saying a damn thing."

You don't know which one he's talking about, which kiss - first, or last. Sometimes they blur in your memories - like what he was wearing, or what cologne he smelled of. That happens in your dreams, as well, but you don't like to mention those.

"Why didn't you reply to my letters? I thought you were - "

"Would you have cared?" What sort of question is that?

Not that you haven't wondered of it yourself, if the roles were reversed, if you had died on May the second, would he have even come to the funeral?

"_Obviously_."

"You do have loyalty issues," he gives a small smile behind his mug of tea. "I'll give you that."

"So you read them? I just imagined that you were throwing them into a furnace as soon as they were delivered."

He's more of a liar than you thought, it hits you - not that it matters, of course.

"_Obviously_."

"How's Nancy?"

He looks dejected - and (it's probably a really fucking selfish thing to do) you begin to hope. "Non-existent."

"Why? Did she spontaneously combust? Go back in time to prevent her own birth? Which, in itself is a paradox, because if there was no Nancy, there would have been no Nancy to go back in time, so she _would_ have been born - "

"She broke up with me. Wants to be an actress. In New York."

"Oh," you say, though his face had really given it away. "I'm sorry." You're not. Not one piece. Does that make you a bad person?

"It's fine. Who needs love anyway?"

You. You do. Very, very desperately.

"To the single life!" You clink glasses and smile at each other until you're finished.

Which is when you leave.

But this time, you say goodbye.

* * *

"I've come to the realisation that I, er..." Oliver pauses, gaze intently locked on his feet, "I might quite like you, Marietta Edgecombe. A bit. A lot, really."

"_Why_?" Stupid damn mouth. Always betraying you at every turn. You don't mean to let it slip, not at all.

"What d'you mean, _why_?" He seems rather indignant and oh, you've really gone and _blown_ it now, haven't you?

"I'm a last choice." It's out before you can stop it. "A _'hmmm, maybe I'd fuck you if we were the only human beings left on earth and it was absolutely **necessary** for the continuation of the race_.'"

You don't expect him to burst out laughing. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard."

(and really, SNEAK seems so far away)

"It's true," you insist, though the corners of your mouth are threatening to turn upwards. "Nobody likes me. It's a well-known fact."

What you _do_ see coming, however, is his mouth covering your own in a simple, chaste kiss. No complications (though that might be a slight exaggeration) - not like the other two and this time you won't run off.

"I do," he mumbles, and you could laugh at it all.

(_deja-fucking-vu_)

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter or Running Up That Hill

A/N: PHEW! This is the second-longest one so far, after Fluorescent Adolescent and I mean, that's my least-favourite so...

Thanks to:

**NoodlesOodles34** \- thanks for the request, I'm glad you liked the others and I hope yup enjoyed this one too. I know it's not OliverOC (I'm sorry!) but Marietta is a pretty minor character, so...shrug?

**thatlatenightramen** \- okay, totally, I'll write Tedoire and Oliver/Katie, thanks for the review! I'm surprised you liked Fluorescent Adolescent best, it's the oldest one there, but each to their own, I guess!

**jg2000** \- I know, I kinda thought (still think, still think) that Hagrid/Charlie was implausible, but that idea is now burned into my brain forever. Shudder. I'll definitely do Pansy/Daphne (actually a really cool couple choice, now that I think about it).

Reviews/requests are appreciated, as is telling me which one has been your favourite/least-favourite so far!


	27. Always - TeddyVictoire

**Always**

TeddyVictoire

Warnings: swear words, mention of threesomes, reference to a dirty joke

Music: Bonfire Heart, James Blunt

* * *

"Bloody trash," Victoire says, crumpling up The Prophet and aiming it at the bin with surprising skill. "I cannot believe that _bitch_."

He can't help but agree with her - even if it is in a less..._aggressive_ way. So Teddy attempts to diffuse the situation the only way he knows how - humour. "Now can you please inform me why we _aren't_ skulking around in dark corners?"

She gives him the Death Glare - the one that tells him he's fucked (but not really, she's just kidding) and to shut the hell up. "Don't you _dare_. This isn't a laughing matter. My whole family thinks we're _dating_."

Honestly, he doesn't see why that would be a _problem_, but he bites his tongue. "I believe the word she used was '_snogging_. Oh, and '_snuggled up together_.'"

"I was cold!"

Victoire doesn't really need to defend herself to him, he knows all of it himself, _Just Friends,_ blah blah blah, _like a brother_, blah blah blah, _not interested like that_...

"And what on _earth_ is Troy going to think?"

Ah, yes. _Troy_. The sensitive, intelligent boyfriend - really, Teddy's opposite. Proof that nice guys do _not_, in fact, finish last, and do (on occasion) get the girl.

As if Victoire is some kind of prize to be won - which she isn't - and even if she was, he wouldn't _want_ that prize anyway. Not that there's anything inherently _wrong_ with her - she's just...not his type.

Besides, it would be creepy. Considering that they're practically family and all that.

Yes. Totally creepy. Not good. Not good at all.

* * *

"So, the Queen of England is visiting one of Canada's top hospitals when - " Teddy pauses momentarily as Victoire approaches their crowd. "Oh - uh, hey."

"Finish the joke," one of his friends (Scott, most likely) calls out impatiently.

He glances back and forth between his mates and Victoire, choosing the option that _won't_ get his balls hexed off. "I, um, I don't think it's appropriate. When a lady is present."

The disgust is evident by their faces.

"I need to talk to you."

"Okay, yeah, sure," he follows her lead, glancing back to find several of his mates making crude hand gestures - the most notable of which being the crack of the whip - which, for the record, he is _not_.

Deciding that he absolutely bloody _hates_ his friends, Teddy exits the Common Room with a smile.

* * *

"How did you get into Hufflepuff Common Room anyway?" He lifts an eyebrow as Victoire settles onto the couch (merlin, he loves the Room of Requirement). "You're a Ravenclaw."

She just _stares_ at him for a minute in a rather unnerving manner, until finally blinking up at him and deciding to speak. "Teddy," she says slowly, "I tell you I need to talk to you -and it could be any reason - I might be pregnant - and you ask _that_?"

"Are you?"

"Are you what?"

"Pregnant." Damn, he'll kill Troy if she is. Knocking up a fourteen year old girl is pretty high up on the douche-y things to do list.

It's as if he's gone crazy - yes, that's it, that's the face she pulls. "_No_!"

"Oh."

"Do you know Ivy March?"

Ivy March...Ivy March...it takes him a while to place a face to the name, but he figures it out eventually. Petite. Blonde. Gryffindor the year below him, year above her. Oh so very _perky_. "Yeah, what about her?"

She bites her lip - he doesn't miss the movement. "I'm worried that Troy might be seeing her behind my back."

He leaps out from his seat, only for her to pull him back down again.

"Calm down, you lunatic! I said,_ I think_."

"Why?"

"Why what?" That's it. That's their game, the one they like to play with each other, when they both know exactly what the question is.

"Why do you think that...?" He trails off, knowing that the rest is...upsetting. Probably best unspoken, at least, by him.

Victoire pauses and he can't tell if she's sad or just unwilling to answer. "He talks about her sometimes. They're Herbology partners. And it was something that _cow_ Lisa Sullivan said - "

He realises what she's going to say before she does - her masterplan, which any idiot could have come up with, but somehow, he's the idiot who gets roped into it.

"I need you to help me."

* * *

"Brown hair looks terrible on me," he complains, adjusting his trousers woefully. "As does being a skinny little weirdo."

Victoire's eyes tell him to '_shut up_,' but any insult of Troy is _totally_ worth it. "Hey - if he is - "

"Which he isn't!" He notices the hypocrisy in her statement - after all, she was the one who came up with this mad scheme under that belief - and chooses to ignore it.

"But if he is - " Ooh, her gaze _burns_, "I'm allowed to make all the comments I want, right?"

HShe gives a disdainful sniff, as if she is one of those upper-class princesses (that's always kind-of been her attitude) and nods her head.

"Where's the prick?"

Or, Troy's new nickname. To go along with posh-twat, stupid-bastard and skinny-weirdo.

"Currently serving detention with Filch on the seventh floor." He's impressed at her knowledge - then again, she is the prat's girlfriend. "Ivy is in Gryffindor Common Room - I asked Carla to make sure she stays there."

"If you have this all planned out, what's the password?"

"Bramble bush," she says, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world. "Now go! Hurry up - his detention doesn't last forever!"

* * *

"Well?" Patience has never been _Victoire's_ virtue - even now it makes him grin a little bit at her testiness. "Is he a pumpkin-eater?"

"Unless she's remarkably adept at telling us apart, no. Perfectly normal. She seemed more interested in talking about the weather than when our next shag was going to be."

"So there _was_ shagging?" Victoire's face falls. He rubs the bridge of his nose and decides how better to explain it.

"Between her and posh-twat? None at all. But I myself might...look into it. She's prettier than I remember."

"You disgust me."

He flashes her that (dazzling, he's been told) smile, with the little wink to go along with it. "Please. I did your bidding, you can't be _that_ mad."

She throws a sofa-cushion at him and giggles when it hits him squarely on the nose. "Good luck getting _Ivy March_ to sleep with you."

"Why?" Teddy asks indignantly, "I'll have you know a lot of girls are willing to take a chance on a poor old metamorphmagus - "

"Oh really?" Why does she sound disbelieving? It's perfectly true. He's not hopeless in _that_ department - better than skinny-weirdo, probably. But he doesn't like romance. He likes _fucking_, not romance.

His experiences with love so far have been too weird for him to have any faith in the thing whatsoever.

"Yes, _really_, Victoire Weasley. However much you may doubt it - "

"A lot - "

"I have skills in certain areas - "

"Ew." She wrinkles her nose in a most adorable fashion. Like a first-year, he thinks, who has just been confronted with their first lecture on the 'ever-changing body.' "Too much information."

* * *

"Teddy?" Victoire mumbles, just loud enough so he can hear her. "What if I'm just Troy's Beard?"

"You think he's gay? 'Cause I had always suspected..."

True, he had. He had made that theory very well-known to her in the past, but back then, she had always laughed it off as a '_Teddy_' thing to say. Nothing more than that.

"No, I mean - what if he's secretly in love with Ivy? What if he's dating me to make her jealous? What if I'm just him settling for second-best?"

"Victoire..." he tries to be as gentle as possible, which is kind of hard, considering who exactly he is..."I think maybe...you're the jealous one."

Teddy expects her to fight back, argue, or at the maximum - slap him, but she just sighs instead. "You're right. I'm being paranoid. I should just - " she unclenches her fists, "let it go. I'm sure he's fine."

He wants to ask her why she's getting so fussed over a school-relationship, but then he supposes that she isn't like him. Victoire believes in true love and romance, in The One and cuddles.

Maybe because she got parents to demonstrate it to her.

* * *

"How's the girlfriend?" Scott asks, scribbling away at his parchment. History of Magic homework. A plague upon mankind - the sad part being that Professor Binns would probably never give up his position and since the factor of _dying_ was ruled out...

"Non-existent." Teddy likes to pretend he doesn't know who he's talking about, because they _aren't_ dating - despite what that heinous bitch Rita Skeeter might write in her little gossip columns.

"You know who I mean."

"_Victoire_ is fine." Well, no, not really, but he doesn't feel like discussing her life - not even to a mate of his.

"Why don't you just do some big girly thing? Win her away from that Troy-bloke? Maybe then you'll be less of a drag - "

He doesn't want to win her from posh-twat though. They're strictly Just Friends. Nothing more. In the sense that there never _will_ be anything more. "I'm not a _drag_ \- "

Scott looks up from his parchment. "Yeah, you kinda are. Have you had a single detention in the last few months?"

Teddy pauses, attempting to think. "There was that one from Professor Longbottom - "

"Not doing your homework doesn't count."

"Maybe I'm trying to better my life." Honestly, he hadn't even noticed he was becoming a good citizen. It had just...happened. "Did you ever think of that?"

"You're an _awful_ liar." He returns to his essay and doesn't say anything more of it.

And deep down, Teddy knows that on some level, he is _right_.

* * *

"Same problem, better health plan!" His friends erupt into childish laughter at this, while he sits there and smirks. Oh, he's _smooth_, alright.

Scott gives him a knowing stare - which Teddy chooses to ignore - and reluctantly chuckles along with the rest of them.

"So, I was thinking - "

"You do that real often?" Howard asks (small, intelligent type), rolling his eyes.

"Oh, shut up." He gives him the Death Glare - the one he's so accustomed to seeing from Victoire and hopes that it's nearly half as effective. "Anyway, it's been far too long since we all got a good old-fashioned group detention. And I happen to have a grudge right now, so..."

* * *

"You vanished my boyfriend's hair." Is she mad? Maybe it's just his imagination, but she looks a little mad. "You _vanished_ my boyfriend's _hair_."

"Please," he tosses out that gleaming grin - the Cheshire-Cat type one. It probably _could_ be seen in the dark, if he put it to the test. "Show a little sympathy. He wasn't the _only_ victim."

Turns out, several of his friends had been seeking revenge as well. Various reasons - but it didn't get any less entertaining as they went through the list. Seventeen, he thinks the total count was.

"What has he _ever_ done to you?"

It's a pretty stupid question, considering their...rivalry has existed for quite some while now, but he obliges her. "Do you want the full list? Or the main reasons?"

She screws up the corner of her mouth, in a way such that he can't tell if it's out of anger, or simply a repressed giggle.

"Besides, I thought _you'd_ be up for it."

"He isn't cheating." No, he isn't (at least, not to Teddy's knowledge) but that doesn't make him any less of a posh-twat. "And he's perfectly respectable - "

"In the kind of way that makes you want to punch him in the face..."

"Shut up." It isn't angry, more slightly-annoyed and just a little exasperated.

"If he's so _great_, why haven't you introduced him to the family yet?" Not that he's inviting her to. Not at all. That would be positively dreadful in fact -

"Maybe I will."

_Shit_.

* * *

"Hey, Uncle Harry!" Teddy grins and steps through the doorway, ruffling his hair, which has been turned red and green for the occasion. And people accuse him of not having enough Christmas _spirit_. "I brought you a gift."

He had tried, at least. Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny got wine, James a Quidditch book, Albus a scarf and Lily a collection of fairy tales. He isn't the _best_ at choosing presents.

Uncle Harry smiles and gestures for him to go through, stopping to kiss his grandmother on the cheek before following.

As soon he gets through the door to the living room, a little blur of ginger and pink comes flying across the room to embrace him. "Teddy!"

"What's up, Lils?" Secretly, she's his favourite. He'd never tell though. "How's your Christmas so far?"

The six year old gives a gap-toothed smile and responds with a '_great_.'

Teddy glances up to Ginny. "Who else is here?"

She gives a shrug and counts off on her fingers. "Percy and Audrey, mum and dad, George and Angelina...Hermione and Ron, obviously."

"Not Bill and Fleur? And...um...their children?"

Why is she looking at him like that? What? What did he say? "Victoire?" That face...it's like she's saying '_you're so obvious_' but he's not. There isn't even anything to _be_ obvious about. "That article was certainly _enlightening_."

He covers Lily's ears briefly. "It was bullshit. All of it."

She raises an eyebrow. "I'm well acquainted with..." her lip curls, presumably in disgust, "Rita Skeeter and I know that her articles are more based on _fiction_. However," there's that face again. "every fairy story has elements of the truth."

Harry and Andromeda join them in the room, putting an end to the conversation. Trailing behind them is James and Albus.

"I could have sworn there were five hundred more of you," he teases. "Where are the rest?"

"Grandma enlisted their help in the kitchen." It's Albus who speaks up, surprisingly. That kid's quieter than a mouse. "We got kicked out for 'ruining the potatoes.'"

"I put your presents under the tree." He turns back to Lily. "You too."

Suddenly, there's a loud sound that can only be a knock on the door. Teddy leaps to investigate, giving a garbled "I'll get it," as an excuse. _Her_. Obviously.

He comes face to face with an ageing (but not noticeably) red-haired wizard that he'd rather not see. "Bill. Um, good to see you." Teddy nearly bashes his head in trying to poke his head around the door to spot Victoire.

Bill responds with a grunt (that can only mean 'stay away from my daughter') and marches in with Fleur, (who kisses Teddy on the cheek) Louis (who gives him a firm handshake) and Dominique (who ignores him and reapplies her lipstick).

"Where's the boyfriend?" Death Glare. Death Glare. Very, _very_ much Death Glare. "Decide not to bring him?"

Victoire's face is stony, her eyes ice-cold. "_Troy_ is coming later tonight."

"I hope he arrives in time for dinner," Teddy replies, overly-cheerful, (is he laying the sarcasm on thick enough?) with an eccentric wave of the hand, "I hear Molly's Yorkshire are _on point_."

* * *

"Roxanne!" He gives the pint-sized twelve year-old a high-five and a beam. "How's the punk phase?"

If those boots (and the faded Green Day T-shirt) are anything to go by, stronger than ever. Fred - who seems more preoccupied by his copy of the Great Gatsby than his family - rolls his eyes at the two of them and shakes his head.

"So, Dominique, how was Paris?" His grandmother, trying to lighten the mood (family gatherings are a dreadful bore, after all) and failing.

"Remarkably boring." Flick, flick, flick, of the gossip magazine (which is Teen Witch, if he squints) until she drops it to the floor. "Not at all romantic."

"I would hope not, considering that you're thirteen."

She does the Death Glare almost as well as her sister.

"Dominique, stop being so dreadfully moody, would you?" Speak of the devil. Almost literally. She re-enters the room surprisingly calm, settling down on the sofa near a blissfully content Lily, who is playing with one of her opened-early toys. "Guys, this is Troy - "

_Fuck, posh-twat actually_ _turned up, _he thinks, just as said prick makes his way into the room, with that usual beam plastered onto his face. His eyes flicker a little when they land upon Teddy, but other than that, he shows no sign of hostility.

"I brought chocolate!" Damn it. Damn it to hell. There's no way they won't go for that.

All of them flock to him as he pulls out the Galaxy Caramel bars (stupid fucking chocolate bar, everybody's fucking favourite) - with even Dominique showing traces of human life as she picks herself up to inspect the calorie content.

Except Roxanne, who hangs back around Teddy.

"Not getting a chocolate bar?" Perhaps it's an after-effect of being punk somehow, although it never happened to him - no, he's choosing to abstain (though it's proving to be difficult with that gloriously tempting smell) for entirely different reasons.

She points to herself. "Lactose intolerant." It's not bitter, more...weary, as if she's had to explain this fact several times. "I thought Victoire was dating you?"

"Um...no."_ Why does everyone think that? _

"Oh." Roxanne gives him the Obvious face - the one that people just seem to keep wearing around him. Is he stupid or something? Is there something he fails to see? "You seem better suited to each other. That guy - " she jerks a thumb at Troy, who is still happily smiling away, "seems kind of preppy."

_Roxanne_, Teddy decides, _is his new second-favourite_.

* * *

"Teddy, pass the gravy," James motions for the pot, before glancing back at his parents, "please."

He does so, spotting (and ignoring) the fact that next to him, stupid-bastard and blonde-princess (her new nickname - the princess is sarcastic, of course) are holding-fucking-hands. If he focuses too long on that, he might get the urge to throw up.

"Troy, aren't you eating anything?" Molly Weasley - the first, that is, looks downright offended at the lack of food on his plate. Probably some fucking spiritual thing or some bullshit like that -

"Actually, I ate before, with my own family and I hate to say it, but I'm pretty stuffed. Though I'm sure it's positively delicious!" Skinny-Weirdo responds cheerfully. Why is that his fucking-permanent state of mind? So goddamn happy, all the fucking time.

"So, Teddy, how's school?" Fuck. He had prayed this question would not come to him, as it had done to every other Hogwarts-age person there, by various adults. "Doing alright? Getting good grades?"

"The future's so bright, I gotta wear shades," he quips. Nobody gets it. "Uh, yeah, fine, I guess. _Victoire_ is doing better than me. Look, she even got a _boyfriend_!" Wow. Pretending to be upbeat is really _not_ his thing.

"How did you two meet?" Lily asks excitedly, eyes incredibly bright. He pities her, because someday, she'll get _her_ heart broken and end up a miserable bastard like him.

"We bumped into each other by accident and spilled each other's stuff everywhere..." Isn't that like, the plot of several thousand different films? "Then he asked me out on a date - "

Cue Romantic Gaze. God, he's going to need the brain bleach for _that_.

Bill, he is pleased to note, does not look thrilled by any of this - which is probably the understatement of the year. At times, Teddy wonders if her father will actually say anything, or you know, throw Troy against a wall and beat him senseless. Yes. The latter. The latter would be the preferable option.

Dominique and Louis, however, seem to be involved in a rapid discussion in French, (though he hears the words Teddy, Victoire and Troy mentioned) culminating in the former bursting out into gleeful giggles - probably the most jolly she's been all night - and Fleur scolding the two of them - also in French.

"What's so funny?" It's Molly (the younger) that asks the question first, though Teddy was getting around to it.

"Oh, just that - "

"Louis - " Victoire cuts in, "was making an incredibly vulgar comment that is _not_ true in the slightest."

Later that night, Teddy learns exactly _what_ ménage à trois means and is scarred for perhaps life.

* * *

"Galaxy-caramel?" It isn't the prick, thankfully, but rather, blonde-princess, who towers above him in those spiky pink heels (also, he is sitting down) and could probably provoke a heart attack if she ever sneaks up to him like that again.

"I prefer to sulk." That didn't come off as joking as he would have liked it to. Oh well. "Is lover-boy staying over tonight? Surely your father will attack him with a pick-axe in his sleep?"

"No, he isn't. Are you?"

"You know me. The Weasley-Potter-Lupin annual sleepover is my one joy in life. I even brought my Doctor-Who jammies and some popcorn for the midnight feast!" Sarcasm, of course, though popcorn doesn't sound too bad right now.

"I would put my sleeping bag next to yours, but dad - "

"Is very protective, yes. I'm beginning to wonder if Troy secretly hired him to keep me away from you."

Against all odds, she begins to smile. "Seems plausible."

"Wouldn't that be ironic?" Yes, the whole '_Ivy March_' situation certainly left it's mark between the two of them. "Considering how I was _your_ spy..."

"Who are you, James Bond?"

_Only if you're a_ _Bond Girl_...

He doesn't dare say it. It would bring up too many...issues at hand. Ones they can't deal with. Not now, at least. But maybe...maybe sometime.

* * *

He sleeps alone in the kitchen. Not uncomfortably - he has pillows and a sleeing bag, but the whispers from the rest of them in the living room very-nearly keep him awake all night.

When he dreams, he dreams his life is a sitcom - right until it reveals that he was a side-character all along and Victoire-and-Troy are the main characters and the series revolves around their happily-ever-after, not his. He gets killed off in the Christmas special by Bill Weasley, who is standing over him with a pick-axe...

"Shit!" His eyes fly wide open, still in the dark, but...lighter-dark. Rustling. Rustling. Oh god, if it's Bill Weasley with a pick-axe...

"Teddy?" It isn't the voice of a serial killer, or even an overprotective dad, it's the voice of his favourite little girl in the whole wide world, as he tells her often. "It's me, Lily."

"What are you doing out of bed?"

"I want to see Father Christmas." He smiles to himself in the dark, sitting up a little and facing what he thinks is Lily, but could just be one big black blob.

"He won't come if you aren't asleep." A double entendre if he ever heard one, but she wouldn't point that out to him, for obvious reasons. "You should probably go back to your family."

"Teddy?"

"Yeah?"

"Are you jealous? Of Troy?" Fuck. Even the fucking six-year-old thinks there's something going on between them - which there ISN'T.

"Why would I be?" Skinny-Weirdo doesn't _deserve_ his envy. Not even over Victoire.

"Because he's dating - "

"Maybe you should get back to bed." He says it as gently as possible (though secretly, he's kinda pissed) and she doesn't seem to mind, just skips back to the living room happily enough.

Fuck. He needs sleep.

* * *

"Croissant, Teddy?" Normally, he would be up for it, but he feels a little groggy and all the shouts of "IT'S CHRISTMAS!" from the younger members of their gathering have left him only desiring of a black coffee. And maybe some headache tablets.

"I'm okay."

"Are you sure?" Fleur looks concerned for his health - which is probably a good thing, but in the moment, seems a little irritating. "You come across as slightly...hungover."

Oh, he wishes he had had alcohol the previous night. Then again, maybe Bill had slipped something into his drink. Honestly, Teddy wouldn't put it past him.

"They're opening the presents in there," George enters the kitchen, pointing down the hallway as he does so. "If you want to go, Teddy. I'd prefer to stay here and nurse my poor, poor head."

"You too?"

"Yes, but I suspect yours wasn't caused by drinking too much firewhiskey. Unless it was, in which case, I'm probably obligated to tell you that alcohol is a really stupid life decision and never to touch it." Because he sounds _totally_ convincing.

"I'll go."

"Good. No offence, but this _talking_ thing is just making it worse."

* * *

Teddy rips off the wrapping paper from the Potter family slightly hesitantly - he isn't wonderful at the whole _grateful_ attitude, but he doesn't want to seem selfish. Black. Definitely black. Clothes...but cooler. "A leather jacket!"

Okay, maybe that is a pretty awesome present. Especially considering what they cost. But _damn_, he's going to look great in it. "Thanks." And he genuinely means it.

Lily, Albus and James all thank him for their respective presents as he eyes blonde-princess in the corner of the room. Holding a present. His is tucked away in his pocket - still there, just hidden. Unless...her's is for someone else? No. All the others have already eagerly torn theirs to shreds. It can't be. So it must be...his.

Making sure shotgun-papa doesn't see him, he slips over to her, unfurling his palm to reveal an electric-pink-wrapped present. A peace offering, of sorts. Over posh-twat.

She looks startled by this, as if she wasn't expecting him to get her anything. Of course he did. He does every single bloody year.

"What is it?" Victoire rattles the box, as if that would somehow magically inform her of it's contents.

"Here's a novel idea - open it."

Her Death Glare is immediately replaced by a look of surprise and maybe-affection as she discovers it's contents. Earrings. Cheap (as cheap as jewellery is nowadays), but meaningful. It's not like he can afford diamonds. Troy probably could.

"Oh, Teddy..." her face softens and she shoves her own gift into his hands, "I got you something as well."

"A restraining order?" That would've been Bill's recommendation.

He takes apart the wrapping-paper slowly, not expecting much. "Cologne. Um...thanks." If she takes his hesitation as displeasure with the present (not just simply not knowing what to say) she doesn't show any sign of it. "Are you saying I smell?"

"Not at all!" Her face goes a light shade of pink, to match both her pyjamas and her earrings. "Oh. You were joking."

Shotgun-papa indicates this is all the time they will get talking alone together, so he reluctantly trails back to his seat by the fireplace and opens the box of fudge Molly (the first) gave him.

He pops one into his mouth and pretends he isn't looking at her.

Just like always.

* * *

"Teddy?"

They're alone. Together. Empty room. Empty house. And, fuck, it's _awkward_.

"Yes?"

Christ, he sounds like a little girl. Has he always sounded like that? So small and weak?This isn't exactly the _best_ of situations. Her. Him. Nobody else around. Where the hell is Shotgun-papa? Oh, he would kill Teddy if he knew about _this_.

"Why do you hate Troy so much?"

Good question. No, bad question. Incredibly complicated and difficult to answer question. "Because..."

They're drawing closer. Why are they drawing closer?

The space between them has decreased to the point where it's like she's magnified - he can spot every other fleck of green in her baby-blue eyes, trace his fingers over the parts of her hair that aren't that shade of honey he's grown to -

"He doesn't deserve you." Fuck, why is he being honest? _Now_, all of all times? Lying is his art form - lying is safety, lying is not confronting those _feelings_.

"And you think you do." It's not bitter, not even accusing. The way Victoire says it - she doesn't even imply that he isn't _worthy_ of her.

"Whoever said I wanted - "

She strains upward, so that her face is just below his, mouth almost daring him to reach a little lower, just let himself kiss her back, but he can't. It's wrong. It's cheating. It's _wrong_.

_Wrong, wrong, wrong_. He has to physically stop himself from doing it, because if it weren't for...everything, he would. In a heartbeat.

He moves. Slowly, slowly...

Fuck, he doesn't know how it happens, because he was moving _back_, but suddenly her lips are on his and he isn't pulling back even though he _should_ be. _Wrong_, _wrong_, _wrong_.

Instead of doing the right thing and stopping her, he does the complete opposite and maybe he's a fool, but dammit, Victoire Weasley has that effect on him.

Bubblegum lipgloss. He finally knows what makes her lips shimmer like that. He's been wondering since he was fourteen.

"Wrong," he gasps out as they break away, because maybe it's just him, but he kind of needs oxygen. "Cheating?"

"Problems for another day."

And then she kisses him again.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter, Green Day, Bonfire Heart, galaxy-caramel or The Future's So Bright, I Gotta Wear Shades (Timbuk 3)

AN: I know, I know, the last bit was kinda cheesy but I'm terrible at writing kisses, okay?

Thanks to:

**NoodlesOodles34** \- glad you enjoyed!

**latenightramen** \- for the request, I hoped you liked it!


	28. Wake Up - OliverKatie

**Wake Up**

Oliver/Katie

Warnings: swear words, mild violence

Music: Come Home, _One Republic_

* * *

_Katie. Katie, wake up_.

His voice is gentle. Familiar. All the others (the people who come to visit) are too, but this one seems to stick out for some reason. It echoes and rattles in your mind, like it's haunting you.

You can see him, Katie. If you just open your eyes and _wake up_.

* * *

It happened in the Before-Life too, you remember.

Only just - snippets and visions and dreams that don't make sense. For another reason though - something cursed, some necklace -

It hurts (burns, burns, _burns_ your brain) to think past that. This time, it's different, though. Another thing. Another curse, or jinx, or magic fuck-up.

Something else.

* * *

_Battle_.

They all mention this when they talk to you. What battle? It's to do with why you're..._here_, you think, but you aren't sure. It's bad. You can tell from their voices, how their throats well up and they _sob_ -

And they leave. Eventually.

Meaning you're all on your own.

You don't like it like that.

* * *

Teeth.

Teeth and blood and claws and you're a _monster_, Katie Bell. It's unspoken, but you can tell from their voices. What they're all thinking. They don't want you to come out of this sleep, because they're _scared_ of you. Who wouldn't be?

Except...him. He just sounds...weary.

_Come home, Katie._

* * *

_Quidditch. Do you remember?_

Vaguely. Pieces here and there, of flying. Of the wind tossing through your hair, of being _free_. Blissful. At peace with yourself and the world. Didn't last long. There are others there too - a boy with a lightning-scar, ginger twins, two girls you think were your friends and _Him_.

It's the voice. You're sure of it. Except right now, he's just one confusing _blur _in your head.

_You can fight it, Katie_.

* * *

Red.

Blood-red.

If only you could open your mouth to scream.

* * *

Your mother visits for the first time.

That's who she tells you she is, anyway. She could be some complete stranger masquerading as her and you wouldn't know the difference, would you? If she knew that, it would break her heart, but you don't tell her. Just sit there, wordless.

(_SPEAK, KATIE BELL, SPEAK_)

* * *

_I've been injured too. Not like you, though_.

That's her excuse. It's a good one, you suppose later on, but when you hear it, you are ANGRY. How dare she not drop everything and run to you? How dare she leave you _here_? _Alone_?

_I'll stay now. As long as I can_. _Opening time until closing time_.

* * *

_She's cold_.

It's not spoken to you, rather to who you assume is your mother. The Voice is back. From their conversation following, you deduce (right little Sherlock Holmes, aren't you?) he touched your hand. Hand, finger. They're all the same. Numb.

Teaches him not to do that again. You imagine nobody else does, except perhaps the Healers, because you're like a goddamn-fucking-LEPER, shit they better not touch you, because your brain-dead disease might be _catching_, mightn't it?

_Don't -_

* * *

_Oliver_

That's his name.

_Oliver_.

* * *

_It's snowing_.

It was snowing before, wasn't it? The Before-Injury, in the Before-Life. You don't recall what happened, but you can still hear the faint echo of a scream, from your friend. Your friend -

L -

Le -

Lee -

_You never liked the snow, did you Katie?_

* * *

_Leanne_.

She's been coming to visit you for a while, but you've never quite recalled her name, until a nurse happens to talk to her whilst she sits (or stands, the whole _vision_ thing is a nuisance) by your bedside and waits.

For you to wake up.

_Carnations. Your favourite_.

* * *

_Oliver Wood_.

Bits and pieces. Coming along, aren't you? Quidditch captain, keeper, all around -

Your own heart throbs when you hear _his_ Voice. You liked him, maybe, in the Before-Life. Not how you like Leanne, or those other girls you used to hang around with (their names escape you) - how you like something that is so impossibly out of reach (quite literally, for you now) yet you cannot draw yourself away from.

_If only you could open your eyes._

* * *

_Harry Potter_

The boy who won the war.

You're making progress.

_Slowly_.

* * *

_She blinked!_

Did you? You don't quite remember. You suppose that this is a sign of recovery - though you don't think they should be getting their hopes up yet. You still feel...stuck. That recurring nightmare of being trapped in a swimming pool and unable to swim. But you're reaching the surface now, nearly. Almost. Not yet.

_Did you see that? She blinked_.

* * *

Oliver reads you Tennyson into the night, until you are half-sick of both imagery _and_ mythology, though you do appreciate the gesture. Tennyson is his favourite poet, he tells you and explains why at great length. You don't mind.

Talking fills up the silence.

But you always did prefer Plath.

* * *

_Werewolf_.

Oh look, they've determined your condition.

* * *

_Slipping. Maybe it's best - _

So that another beast isn't released into the world. You wonder if anyone would still love you, after that. After they watched their friends (Leanne has mentioned a Lavender-girl on occasion) be destroyed by your kind, ripped to shreds -

_Just like you_.

* * *

_Dead_.

Better off, anyway. You remember Remus Lupin. How it ruined his life, his career, just as soon as his secret got _out_.

Better off dead, but not. Not quite, anyway. And it might not be said often, but you're a _fighter_, Katie Bell.

_You're going to wake up. _

* * *

Sunlight.

For the first time, pouring through the window, hitting that delicate spot in the centre of your eyes -

"Katie?"

"Oliver." His appearance is strange, a mixture of familiar yet different, not just a memory, an actual, physical picture of the boy who has visited you since you first arrived here.

"You're awake."

* * *

I don't own: Tennyson (the half-sick line also belongs to him by the way) Harry Potter, Come Home or Sylvia Plath.

Thanks to:

**thatlatenightramen** \- for the request. Sorry it wasn't more romantic. *winces* I hope you enjoyed anyways!

**Guest** \- yeah, 'dark' is one of the most common words to crop up in my reviews, lol. Am I the only one who doesn't like Fluorescent Adolescent (the chapter, not the song)? Oh, I know he's different to how he's usually portrayed, but that's what I love about minor characters - you can write them practically any way you want and nobody can point to canon and say they're OOC. Yeah, the Draco/OC one was inspired by a dream I had, so it was bound to be a little weird. I'm kinda rambling now, so thanks for reading, glad you enjoyed..

**Roxiblilly** \- Really? Best one yet? Cool. Great pairing request - I love both rare-pairs and Padma Patil (both of the Patil sisters are just awesome in general) so this should be fun to write!

As always, I am open for requests or reviews (well, you have to review to request). Particularly those that inform me of your favourite oneshot of mine. For the record:

Fluorescent Adolescent (Tedromeda): 2

Always (Ted/Victoire): 1

Eventually: 1

Fight: 1 (this was me)


	29. Impermanence - PansyDaphne

Impermanence

Daphne/Pansy

Warnings: swearing and smoking.

Music: Running Up That Hill, _Kate Bush_

* * *

Puffing on her cigarette with a certain steely determination, Daphne makes a point of not looking you in the eye. Her front porch isn't exactly the most comfortable place to sit, but you suppose drunk adults and dreadful conversation doesn't come across as much better.

She had a decent run. Of them not noticing she was gone. Until they sent _you_ out to find her. Dragging her in has been a difficult mission thus far.

You're both fourteen and the summer before fifth year is proving to be both sticky-hot and utterly-depressing.

Fuck, why can't you talk to her? You're supposed to be a _bitch_. Bossy. Intimidating. Not some nervous wreck in front of a girl you spend all year with. Are _friends_ with.

_Pansy Parkinson_ doesn't get tongue-tied. Ever.

She seems different somehow. Out of school. You both do - less intimidating and more _intimidated_.

"Dessert." You flick back your hair in the way you do - the way that asserts authority, demonstrates confidence. "Apple crumble."

Not really high-society, is it? That's your mother, being awfully whimsical about the whole thing. One would never have guessed it was simply a dinner between two families, with the way she prepared it.

Or rather, the way she ordered your house elves to prepare it.

"Don't care."

You sort of wish you didn't either.

* * *

Is that how it begins? You forget, in your later years.

* * *

_Friends_ doesn't mean kissing in her bedroom after too much champagne. _Friends_ isn't being able to taste her cigarette-smoke on your tongue in the morning. _Friends_ definitely isn't stolen glances as your parents discuss business and other _adult_ topics.

Especially not while you're dating Draco Malfoy.

Sometimes you contemplate how similar the two are. Arrogant smirks, silvery-blonde hair, right down to the way they say your name.

They both represent impermanence. Fleeting moments - Draco doesn't have any interest in you, he never has and Daphne will tire of you eventually. Everyone always does, don't they?

If only your classmates could see you now. Alone. Disillusioned. It isn't you - or, you don't think it is.

You're so fucking insecure that nobody can even tell it. She notices that. Sometimes even takes advantage of that. Maybe she's the only one who sees through your little _pretence_.

Daphne doesn't care for you (does she care for anything?) - it's painstakingly obvious in each of your little _encounters_. It's a fling. An exploration of curiosity and that's all. Oh, she could rip out your still-beating heart and tear it in two, but she doesn't. Not yet.

But it will happen, you know of that. You're both ticking clocks, a countdown to destruction, until she tosses you away like last week's copy of _Witch Weekly_.

You'll act as if it doesn't matter. You're good at that. Everyone else will go on unaware, almost like you were always just _friends_.

Maybe you've fallen in love, but she definitely doesn't give a fuck.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter, or Running Up That Hill, by Kate Bush.

A/N: I'm sorry that it's both short and late - personal issues kinda got in the way of writing this one. Okay, so it's not the _greatest_, but it's not terrible, is it?

Thanks to:

**jg2000** \- for the request

**chocolatecheesecakes** \- yeah, it's a good song.

**nerdyninjaunicorn** \- thanks. Sure, I'll do Daphne/Theodore


	30. It Hurts - ErniePadma

It Hurts

Ernie/Padma

Warnings: swearing

Music: Pompeii, _Bastille_

* * *

_'You deserve her_.'

At least, that's what he tries to convince himself. To stare after her - to dream of her - is a fool's treasure hunt, and, to put it simply - _he ain't getting the gold._

(when she smiles his world comes crashing down around him)

Ernie doesn't -

Ernie wants -

Ernie loves -

Padma isn't perfection. He used to think that, but he knows now. Padma isn't perfection - that's just his own lust, his own _desire_ reflected back at him. She isn't perfection, but she comes pretty damn near close.

He imagines.

A future of hers with him in it. Where he means as much to her as she does to him, where they are in _love_ \- where they are happy. Together.

All his fantasies are chocolate-teapot-_useless_.

* * *

First, she is fleeting. A second or two, a glimpse in the hallway, a spoken word in Charms. Not much. She doesn't speak much at all.

He doesn't understand this - mainly because he's used to filling the air with his own meaningless chatter, knows the sound of his own voice better than almost anyone - talking just seems to fill the great, empty silence inside them all.

If she talked, he would listen. Or not, because first, he doesn't pay attention. On the list of things he thinks about, Padma Patil is _very_ low down.

(she's insignificant, truly)

* * *

He'd rather stare at that friend of hers. Mandy Brocklehurst is blonde-haired, blue-eyed and just a _touch_ of brick-dumb. Or, his ideal girl.

They talk. They fight. They flirt. Ernie thinks he might have a chance. Probably does, but he never gets to find out.

She dates Terry Boot. Not _proper_ dating - (they still possess that first-year innocence) holding hands and silly glances. It breaks his heart nonetheless.

He maybe-probably is the one who slips the hair-changing potion into her pumpkin juice, but hey, he's hurt, right? Green is a good look for her, anyway.

After that, Mandy becomes _old news_.

* * *

"You like Goblin Anarchy?"

Her first words - to him, at least. He's doodled their logo onto his Charms textbook, a rough sketch, but still quite impressive, for a first-year.

Ernie knows practically nothing of Padma, but still anticipates her critical comment, her deconstruction of the drum solo in _'Fuck Amortentia_,' her vitriol towards how _'old_' they are.

"Yeah."

"You're brilliant." She picks up the book, examining the mark with eager eyes. "Nobody else I know has even _heard_ of them, except Parvati, and she thinks that they suck."

He's surprised. It doesn't seem like her sort of music. Too loud, too trashy, too...out there. Padma is shy. Padma is timid. Padma is tame. That's his first-opinion and those usually stay the same. "Favourite song?"

"_Merlin's Dick_." Her mouth upturns into a faint (if he squints) smile. One for him. "It's hilarious. You?"

Ernie is too busy watching her that he's thrown off by this question. "Oh, uh, _House-Elf Anthem_. It's a little darker than the rest - "

"But it's cool," she finishes, nodding like she understands him. "Yeah, I love that one too."

(fuck it, he might as well marry her)

* * *

They become friends.

Sort-of.

Not 'hang-out-together' friends, but the 'acknowledge-the-other-exists' kind. He's okay with that. Really. He moves on from Mandy Brocklehurst to Lisa Turpin, who is petite, brunette and, according to Hannah, interested.

Does he have a thing for Ravenclaws? No, he doesn't think so. Not at all.

* * *

Padma writes over the summer.

To detail Goblin Anarchy's new album - _Untimely November_ \- arriving in the autumn. Excitedly.

Ernie drops her letter in favour of Lisa's and forgets to write back.

* * *

In second year, a rumour starts.

_'She has a crush on you,'_ they whisper and it's so fucking-_ironic_. He doesn't care. Not in the slightest. He's a little worried, actually. They're barely-friends and that's all he imagines they'll ever be. All he wants out of it.

He even has a rejection speech prepared, _just in case_. Ernie waits for her to make the move - he doesn't want to presume it's true, after all, - but she never does. They don't speak of it, just endure the occasional teasing and love-heart gestures. It's a taboo subject and he's perfectly happy with it being like that.

Things are awkward between them for a while, but it passes.

(such is life)

* * *

'_Maybe if he were the last person on the planet_.'

All of a sudden, Lisa Turpin doesn't seem so appealing anymore.

It's accidentally heard, walking around the corridors, their discussion on how _obvious_ his crush is, how he's creepy and stupid and _gross_. Far too arrogant, for anybody's taste. Her and Mandy, who is long-since forgotten, but whose insults manage to leave a sting.

Padma stands there with them. Silent, smiling. Nodding her head.

Lisa gives the tiniest flick of her hair and affirms that she would never, ever date Ernie Macmillan and they march on to their next lesson without the slightest care in the world.

(and he cries a little, but pretends it doesn't matter)

* * *

"Could you find out if Morag likes me?"

Morag MacDougal is a redhead. Which means she's vivacious, fiery and Ernie's new love interest.

Except she's a challenge - Ernie sees her as an obstacle to overcome (the whole _I-hate-everyone_ attitude of hers really doesn't work out in his favour) and he's only fourteen, so this viewpoint doesn't seem that wrong to him.

Cynical. Bitter. He can crack her, he thinks. Never does, but he tries. Outcasts (because that's what she is, kind-of) are his new thing. Troubled, but attractive - all she needs is a leather jacket and she'll truly fit the cliché.

"Covert ops. I'm down with that." Padma gives him the smallest shrug of her shoulders and a half-smile. "I'll be subtle. Promise."

* * *

"I'm sorry."

He knows what she's going to say. He should have known before. Getting Padma involved was just another stupid thing that he did. Girls aren't interested in him. Period. Morag isn't different - he's beginning to realise that now.

"I don't think you're her type."

That's what they all say.

* * *

_Time flies. _

_A thousand more crushes of his fall apart_.

* * *

He doesn't remember what is said, but Padma's _laugh_ -

Fuck, it injures him a little.

Ernie is fifteen and he's not sure when it started, but it did and it's _painful_. How just-friends evolved into always-on-his-mind. How if he closes his eyes, he can imagine her lips, her smile, that little wrinkle of her nose.

Over the holidays, he plays _Fuck Amortentia_ on repeat and tries not to remember her.

They're friends and it's _killing_ him. Not touching her. Touching her - the slightest accidental nudge of her foot against his. Being with her. Not being with her. Her favourite colour - _purple_ \- her favourite song off _Untimely November_ \- _Dancing with Vampires_.

Her breath. Her warmth. Her everything.

(it hurts)

* * *

He can't breathe.

Ernie is sixteen and every time she gets a little _too_ close, his throat closes up. Which is embarassing - but not as much as the constant _blushing_ he is doing around her. She has to have noticed. It's probably obvious to just about _everyone_. Even Hannah - who, as much as he loves her, is a little clueless at times.

He writes poems. Pretentious Goblin-Anarchy lyrics on his hand (_your mint-breath leaves me crazy_) and speeches and stories and he _dreams_.

It's lasted too long. His infatuation is supposed to have fallen away by now. But it hasn't. So he worries. Probably more than he should You-Know-Who is back and it isn't even at the top of his priorities.

Crams (seven to nine hours a day) to escape his thoughts of her, because if he gets good results - well, he doesn't know. Things will be better, he supposes.

(_better is just a word without meaning_)

* * *

He has his first kiss with a muggle girl over the Christmas holidays and still, he doesn't forget.

Her face.

(always)

* * *

"You're friends with Terry, right?" Her eyes shine like a thousand shitty similes. Star-bright. Happy.

"Yeah, I guess." Not really. Kind of. Ernie only says it to please her, really.

(_always_)

"I think it's time for a little more covert ops."

And he knows. He remembers. Every little thing. Every little heartbreak and now -

(fuck, does it _hurt_)

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter, or any bands vaguely resembling Goblin Anarchy. Or Pompeii.

A/N:

Thanks to:

**Roxiblilly** \- for the request. I hope you enjoyed it, it was fun to write (ish).

**lbbonray** \- sure, I'll write a Neville/Luna, thanks for the request!

**jg2000** \- yeah, I love writing Marietta and Leanne, they're cool characters to explore. I'll totally do Regulus/Mary - the Marauders era is my favourite!

**chocolatecheesecakes** \- yeah, I like Draco/Astoria too! I don't think Astoria is mentioned in the books at all, wasn't it just a post-DH interview?

Here is the list of requests in order (I go by date of review):

Theodore/Daphne

Neville/Luna

Regulus/Mary

Draco/Astoria

Once again, I'd like to hear your favourites/least favourites so far!


	31. Everything - TheodoreDaphne

**Everything**

Theodore/Daphne

Warnings: adult themes, sex references (kinda graphic, not much) swear words, I would say caution is very advised here.

Music: Endlessly, Muse

* * *

You watch her.

Endlessly.

Daphne, in all her beauty, could be compared to a princess, or a doll. Flowing blonde (_perfect_) hair. Bright, glassy (_empty_) green eyes. Frigid. Still. Not a thought in that silly little head of hers.

So fragile. Vulnerable. As if she needs protecting. Maybe you could -

If someone were to twist that slender (_ghost-white_) arm, you're sure it would snap clean off. Even the thought makes you horrified. Nauseous, at her (_perfect_) body being...disfigured in any way.

Your first-year heart longs for her, but your mouth says not a word.

* * *

In second-year, you get put next to her in Charms.

Her perfume - it's like cranberry - _intoxicates_ and you very nearly faint at the sight of her (_black_) bra strap.

You realise you have a lot in common - that little thrill at her favourite book being the same as yours most certainly isn't fake - and part of you wishes you could talk to her. Properly.

You can't.

You're a _loser_, Theodore Nott - and she'll never be interested in you, not _ever_.

But you belong together, you're sure of it. There's hope, a little at least, that it's _fate_. Destiny, if you will. You think someday -

Well, maybe.

* * *

The two of you are friends, in a weird sort of way - the (undeserving) loner and Miss-Popularity, (beauty-queen too) discussing classical music and _Hogwarts: A History_, together.

Together. It's an odd word, but it sounds nice on your tongue. Together. _Forever and always. _

Or, that's what you'd _like_ to be.

You'd give her everything, if only she'd let you do that. _Why won't she let you? _

To say that you love her is an understatement. What you feel for Daphne Greengrass is far more powerful, far more unstoppable. Isn't it such a beautiful_, wonderful_ feeling?

* * *

You crave her. You want her. You need her.

Your schoolwork goes downhill. Your nights are plagued with her. When she dates, you fall into despair, though they never last long. To her - men are worthless, disposable. She probably considers you as such. If she considers you at all.

You hope. You're foolish like that. You pray. You dream.

Reality is just a step away, after all.

* * *

Slughorn introduces the concept of Amortentia. You aren't (_at first_) interested in the effect, the whole idea of forcing someone to _love_ you is boring to you, no, rather, you like the _scent_. Her perfume, of course. What you were expecting - what you've always expected. That little circle running back to _her_.

_Forever and always_.

"What d'you smell?" It takes you a while to realise who she's talking to. You're the only two Slytherins in the class, after all. Lowering herself, deigning to speak to _you_, is purely due to this. Nothing else factors into the mixture.

"Um, apples." Lying is second nature to you and there's no way in hell you're admitting your little infatuation, not now, at least. "You?"

"Cinnamon."

And isn't it just fucking-_hilarious_?

You despise cinnamon. With a passion. Of course.

* * *

Your heart is broken, for a while.

Daphne becomes the star of your fantasies, desperate, passionate fantasies that will never come true. Not ever. Her soulmate is someone else, someone who smells of cinnamon and shares your love of classical music and _Hogwarts: A History_, except more so. Someone better.

Someone worthy.

Which you are not.

In your dreams, you fuck her until she screeches your name - _Theodore, Theodore, Theodore_ and forgets the smell of cinnamon in her ecstasy, where that blasted spice means not a thing. Where you are her one, her only. Nobody else.

She tells you she loves you and you come harder. Faster. You never say it back. Leave her hanging - innocently, waiting for you to reciprocate. Like a puppy, or a doll. Your princess. Your damsel-in-distress.

In your dreams, she belongs to _you_.

* * *

"Theodore."

Her face is warm, chubbier than you remember (no longer those thin, angular cheekbones) yet still mesmerising beautiful, retaining that shade of _pale_. Pretty. Still ever so much so.

"How have you been?"

"Good. Since," she makes a vague gesture that can only refer to the war. "You know."

Obviously. It's been two years and all he's thought of every day is _her_. Seeing her face, her body...it's a rush of nostalgia, a breath of fresh air.

"What have you been up to?"

"Potions." Short, concise. You never were one for the talking. "I work for the Ministry now."

"Oh, that's nice." Conversation dulls for a minute or two, which you use to your advantage - to stare at her. Take in every inch of her, all those small things, the changes, the familiarities. Her hair - it's even longer. Her perfume - still cranberry. Still exhilarating.

You've long-since come to the conclusion that sometimes, fate needs a helping-hand.

"Tea?"

Daphne nods her head to affirm _yes_. Obviously. You remember - fourth-year, the one thing she said she couldn't live without. You know her like a muggle would know Shakespeare, or a Quidditch-referee the Chudley-Cannons. As if she is the only thing that matters. What you can't live without.

_Forever and always_.

Her nose darts into the cup and her face pops up with the tiniest beam. "It's nice," she pauses a little, stumbling over the next few words. "Is that cinnamon?"

And all you do is _smile_.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter, Muse, or Shakespeare.

Once again, not my best, but..._shrug_. I didn't think it was too bad.

Thanks to:

**nerdyninjaunicorn** \- for the request. It was probably darker than you expected, but I still hope that you enjoyed!

Next pairing, for the record, is Neville/Luna.

As always, feel free to leave reviews/pairing-requests/tell me your least-favourite and favourite chapters!


	32. Bursting Into Life - NevilleLuna

**Bursting Into Life**

Neville/Luna

Warnings:

Music: Chasing Cars, Snow Patrol

* * *

You sit beside her on the staircase. Quiet, still, solid.

Her hand wraps around your own in an almost instinctive motion. "_Neville_." That's it. Nothing more. Just your name. Luna blinks at you, once, twice, then continues to look out at the aftermath of the battle. You (in pretence, at least) follow her gaze.

You breathe. In, out - so loud you think she might question it, but she doesn't say a word. Neither do you.

Someone shouts, in the distance, nearly-disrupting your perfect little bubble of peace, but Luna doesn't notice. Or if she does, she says nothing of it.

You don't speak.

The two of you just sit there as one.

* * *

_Have you ever noticed that her hair smells like raspberries, Neville? _

_Of course you have. _

_That's all you spend all bloody day thinking about. _

_You may only be fifteen, but you know that Ginny Weasley is the One._

* * *

Luna gives your hand a startling squeeze, marking her first movement in all of three (or so) minutes. Her eyes don't glitter, not like normal. They just..._shine_, in a melancholy sort of way, almost as if she's crying, but she isn't. You've never seen Luna cry. Not ever.

Maybe that's what makes her the strongest of all of you.

She turns to face you, but still remains wordless. You don't mind - it's better, in a sense, than filling empty spaces with mindless chatter, to leave them untouched. Gives it a strange sense of atmosphere. Of tranquility.

Serenity. Luna Lovegood defined in one word.

* * *

_You share a compartment on the train_.

_Ginny brings along her friend - the one who reads magazines upside-down and has that permanently-fixed dreamy smile. Luna, you think her name is. Like the moon. That seems to suit her, you think, but you aren't sure why. _

_Besides, you're far too focused on her friend._

* * *

You feel...emotional.

It's the end of an era, isn't it? Not a particularly _good_ one, but it's still Moving On, no matter what it leaves behind.

Chopping off the snake's head sparked off a whole lot of feelings. Like...importance, but with a price. Is it _bad_, Neville? You killed it, after all. Sliced it clean off. All that blood. Dripping.

The others did the same (_murdered_, isn't that the word?) too. Except with people. Flesh and blood, just like you. Just like Luna. Death Eaters, but _people_, at heart.

And yet you still wish you'd gotten that _bitch_ Bellatrix first.

* * *

_Nobody wants to pair up with you at the DA meetings._

_Of course they don't. _

_You're Neville Longbottom. Outcast. Loser. Weirdo. They'll never look at you like they do at Harry, not Ginny, not Luna, not anybody. _

_Haven't you heard? You're **unwanted**, Neville, and you'd better get used to it._

* * *

It occurs to you that winning, in a sense, doesn't feel quite so good anymore.

The things you've seen...you would give up that one moment of victory a billion times so as to prevent them, a billion times without a single regret.

You trace the scar on Luna's arm with your own, making sure to be feather-light in touch - you wouldn't dream of hurting her, never.

The war - it's broken you all, one way or another. Friends, family, _dead_.

Before, you had thought that winning meant things get _better_. Now you can see that isn't true, not really. Not at all.

* * *

_"I like it."_

_It takes you __a few seconds to realise who she is. Luna Lovegood, the girl from the train, the girl from the DA meetings. Ravenclaw. Fourth-year. Hogwarts-proclaimed weirdo. Currently commenting on the state of your newest project - Star Grass. _

_Commonly found in the south of England. Used to treat colic. Shown to have some effect on the blind in recent studies, but not as thus proved to help. Etc. Etc. _

_"It's pretty." _

_Well, there is that as well, you suppose. _

_"Thanks." _

_Shuffling of the feet, clearing of the throat. What an excellent a way to talk to a girl, Neville. _

_"You're welcome." That's it. That's all she says before walking away, that little half-smile still fixed on her face._

_Luna Lovegood is a strange being, you think to yourself._

* * *

You want to reach out, stroke her hair, (is that creepy?) but you don't, for fear of overstepping your bounds. Little Neville Longbottom, who destroyed a horcrux (and by some convoluted effect, Voldemort himself) and can't bring up the courage to ask a girl out.

Or not. It's the mourning period, after all. You don't suppose anything remotely happy (that is, assuming she doesn't reject you and crush your already-fragile heart into pieces) is allowed to happen at the moment.

So, _love_ \- you feel strangely at peace using that word - isn't really high on the agenda, but you'll settle for friends. You'll settle for anything when it comes to Luna. So long as you're close to her. So long as she's by your side.

You'll be content with life.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter, or Chasing Cars.

Whew. This took a while, I know.

Thanks to:

**Ibbonray** and **sfox88** for the request - I hope you enjoyed.

**nerdyninjaunicorn** \- I'm glad you liked it. I like dark stuff too!

**sfox88** \- sure, I'll write Peter/Lily! I don't always read the AN myself, but I know a lot of other people do. Why don't you like Ron/Hermione?

**Guest** \- Thanks! I'll write Scorpius/Rose for you.

Next pairing: Regulus Black/Mary MacDonald.

As always, leave a review/request/tell me your favourite chapter. The scores are currently:

Fluorescent Adolescent (Tedromeda): 2

Always (Ted/Victoire): 1

Eventually: 1

Fight: 1 (this was me)

Maybe: 1


	33. Touch - RegulusMary

Touch

Regulus/Mary

Warnings: adult themes, swearing

Music: Iris, the Goo Goo Dolls

* * *

Sometimes, when she catches him staring at her, she does this nervous little half-smile and turns her head. Like she's _scared_ of him.

He supposes she has no reason not to be. There was the Mulciber-Incident, after all. Fuck, if he could change one thing about his life (and there is a long list) that would be it. That would be what he would purge from his existence. That day. Just thinking of it makes Regulus want to throw up.

Oh, he's a sick bastard, isn't he?

The (_filthy, perverted)_ lion and the (_pure, innocent_) lamb.

* * *

Mary MacDonald sits in front of him in History of Magic, so naturally, his whole lesson is spent thinking about how much he'd like to fuck her.

And reprimanding himself for it.

He's sure mummy-dearest wouldn't exactly approve of his choice in infatuation (_mudblood_) but then, how should she know anyway?

She has that certain fourteen-year-old charm to her. Petite. Eager-eyed. Untainted (_mudblood_, he reminds himself) by the world.

Well, he'd just love to be the one to do it, wouldn't he?

Schoolgirl-stockings. Buttoned-up-too-tight shirt. Skirt so high it could be illegal. The way her lips (ruby-red) tilt into a demure little smile whenever she daydreams. Regulus kind-of wants to fucking rip his hair out at this point in time.

He knows it isn't love. Love doesn't hurt, not like this.

* * *

Mary is a fourteen year old girl, which basically equates to eager-eyed and hopeful. Not as yet disenchanted with life. Still-bright smile. Looking _forward_ to the future.

She'll be married, she hopes. Have kids. Be the perfect little wife. Career doesn't really present itself as an option - no, she'd prefer to dangle off someone's arm and wait at the window all day, every day until they come home.

Romance is everything to her. It's going to be storybook. Fairytale. Pitch-perfect. Prince Charming will sweep her off her feet and take her away to that golden-palace of his, where they'll live _happily ever after, _like every boring fictional character who ever existed.

As of yet, she hasn't worked out that real life isn't quite like that.

* * *

Regulus never thinks about kissing her. Kissing is too passionate, too tender. Kissing...means something. Fucking her is want. Wanting to fuck her is natural. The whole idea of '_making love_' is bullshit to him. He's fourteen, but he already knows the difference between fairytales and non-fiction.

Nobody '_makes love_.' Not willingly. They lie and say they do, but they _don't_.

Mary is his own desire. His heart doesn't beat faster when he looks at her. He can't imagine marrying her. Mary is a _mudblood_. Beneath him. A silly fantasy his mind plays out when bored, who will probably never notice him anyway.

And she has stupid hair.

* * *

Mary may be young, but she already knows what love is.

Love is cheesy Frank Sinatra songs playing in your head when you see someone. Love is kissing in the rain. Love is never wanting to be apart from someone. Love is uncomplicated and _easy_. Love is when your heart beats ten times faster and almost breaks out of your chest. Love is every cliche in the book.

She wants to find it, someday.

* * *

Mulciber is that slightly-older friend who always pushes you into doing something you don't want to do. For some, it's alcohol. Cigarettes. Drugs, at extremes. Mulciber plays it differently. His is dark magic.

And Regulus is his protege.

They start basic, at first. Work their way up to unforgivables. Regulus whispers '_crucio_' but his wand is silent and Mulciber yells and - and -

(maybe he doesn't want to learn it)

* * *

Mary aspires to be Lily Evans.

Who _doesn't_?

Evans is flawless. Perfect beyond belief. That one person you're secretly jealous of, but never tell, because they're far too nice to put down. She's a fifth year, but still, she talks to Mary. Occasionally.

Cheers her up. Makes her laugh. Hell, Mary would _so_ go gay for Lily, she's not even _kidding_.

They're friends, on a basic level. The level of advice (from Lily to Mary, of course) from time to time, maybe a _little_ boy-talk, of their shared status in the Wizarding World.

_Muggleborn_.

It doesn't hold Lily back.

Maybe Mary shouldn't let it either.

* * *

It's obvious, it appears.

Or Mulciber is just really good leglimens.

"I'd fuck her in the dark," he says loudly (but not overly so, mustn't let Dumbledore hear, after all) at breakfast, "wouldn't want her mudblood face to ruin that body."

The rest (his cronies, all of them) ask who, but Regulus has this sick, sick feeling, like he already knows.

"Mary MacDonald. Hot brunette. Gryffindor. Fourth."

They make gagging noises at this, of course, disgusted by the idea of merely _touching_ one, let alone _shagging_ them.

"Now, come along, boys," Mulciber tilts his head back in a grin, "don't be so _prejudiced_. Surely you'd like to...use one, then throw them away?"

He turns, ever so slightly. "Wouldn't you agree, Regulus?"

* * *

He looks at her. Not that she's noticed or anything. But he does.

Regulus Black is a danger. All those little glances, they're probably him trying to figure out how to murder her in her sleep. Yeah, the killing curse is the simple way, but she's sure he'd find slitting her throat far more _poetic_.

Mary's scared of him, just a little.

Slytherin. Muggleborn. It's the natural order of things.

It's hard work having so many enemies.

* * *

It's nearly nighttime.

Most of Hogwarts are still at Hogsmeade, enjoying their Saturday, but Regulus is stuck with Mulciber, Avery and Wilkes. As always.

Then again, who else would he spend the day with?

In the corridor. Alone. Discussing things from the Dark Lord to which girl in the school they'd most like to shag. His answer is fake, of course. Patricia Parkinson, Seventh Year Slytherin. Blonde. Perky breasts. Typical choice.

Mulciber gives him the slightest shake of the head and a disappointed look, one that Regulus pretends not to see.

But then she turns the corner.

* * *

Mary doesn't walk, she _glides_.

At least, before -

Happiness is a virtue, she's always said. And she is, truly. Sunshine and rainbows, even as a (_mudblood_) muggleborn.

At least, before -

* * *

They skulk.

All four of them. Lurk in the shadows, in that oh-so-cliche teenage-evil way. Like the bastards they are.

And, Regulus, well, he might be the worst of them.

The dark gives it that extra effect, you see. It's nearly sundown, and the corridors are empty, and she doesn't see them coming until they do.

* * *

"Look at this boys!" (fuck, fuck, _fuck_) "We caught ourselves a real, live, _mudblood!"_

"Shut up, Mulciber." Her heart isn't in it, Regulus can tell. She's scared and he can taste his lunch (roast beef and yorkshire pudding) at the back of his throat, poised to come spilling out. He feels like echoing her sentiment, but keeps quiet, slips to the back of the group.

He flicks his wrist (oh, _merlin_) and she goes semi-flying, landing against the wall, with a slight thump that doesn't seem to do much damage.

Regulus tries. He tries to choke out a '_stop_' but he can't do it, so she does instead and the result is _painful_. Tears are forming in her eyes now, and if he isn't careful, they might start in his too -

Another wave of Mulciber's wand -

* * *

She can't -

Breathing hurts.

It takes her a while to realise that's not his spell, that's her own doing and any more, she'll pass out.

Mary looks down and, for the first time, lets out a sob.

* * *

_whoreslutfilthmudblood_

Painted on.

Pink and red.

Her face.

Her body.

_Stained_.

* * *

It takes an hour to scrub off.

The ink runs and her skin rubs and burns, but she does it, in the doesn't feel any less dirty.

* * *

He cries.

* * *

She cries.

* * *

Mulciber gets a suspension (for the rest of term, until summer), because Dumbledore is an old fool who believes in second chances.

The rest get a week's detention. To reflect on what they've done.

Honestly, Regulus doesn't see how polishing awards is going to help them become better people, but he does it.

He supposes he owes that, at least.

* * *

She doesn't tell anybody else, but it gets out, anyway.

Mary can't bear the words.

All she can taste, all she can feel...

That moment suffocates her.

* * *

Regulus spends his summer in his room, listening to his mother and Sirius fight over and over again, until his brother finally works up the guts to storm out altogether. Guess that's why Sirius is a Gryffindor and he's stuck in Slytherin.

Things are quiet, without his brother. Almost...peaceful, in the sense that his mother finally shuts the fuck up and leaves the house calm. Sirius' face is blasted off the tapestry and that's the last they speak of it.

Regulus steals the bottle of Firewhisky out of his father's cabinet and drinks himself to sleep.

Nobody notices.

* * *

Mary doesn't sleep well anymore.

She wakes up in the middle of the night, and it's _whoreslutfilthmudblood, _all over her body again, in black ink, but shining in the dark. Blinking makes it go away, but it's still there, lurking in the back of her mind, just waiting to catch her off guard again.

Even at home - hundreds of miles away from Hogwarts, from Mulciber, she doesn't feel safe.

Mary can't forget.

* * *

He fucks the Selwyn daughter (Emily, Elizabeth, something like that) - tall, leggy, blonde. Permanently-snooty expression. Left Hogwarts the year before last. That's the extent of his knowledge of her, that doesn't involve certain parts of her body.

His virginity.

Huh.

Wasn't that special.

* * *

The muggle boy from down the road (Daniel, or Edward, or some generic name like that) tries to kiss her, one day. She doesn't realise until his lips are barely centimetres from hers, that he's leaning in.

Maybe he wants even more, she doesn't know.

So she freaks out. Runs away, to the tune of '_bitch_' from behind her, back home, back alone.

That's a word she'd better start getting used to.

* * *

He drinks.

Firewhisky, muggle whisky (he has to admit, they do it better) - they're both satisfying enough for him.

Summer is boring. Summer is painful. Summer makes him want to kill himself.

* * *

She brushes her hair.

Almost obsessively. Goes out at night all done up in make-up. Nowhere special, of course. Not even to meet anyone - just to _walk_. Aimlessly. Everywhere. Through woods. Through streets. Hands in her jumper pockets, kicking some stones on her way. Humming that song from the Wireless in her head.

Strangely enough, it works.

Walking just makes her feel better about life.

* * *

School comes around again and sure enough, he finds himself yearning the emptiness of summer once more.

At least in the summer he couldn't feel anything.

Now it's just doom and gloom and suicide. Detentions. Mulciber. Mary MacDonald. Homework. Impending war. Normal teenager stuff.

* * *

Mary walks into school with her head held high and her back arched straight.

By the end of the first fortnight, she is a sobbing, shivering wreck. Desperate to go back home, to just _leave _and never come back. She hasn't run into Mulciber yet and she doesn't hope to,the whole experience would just push her over the ever-looming _edge_.

Of what, she wonders, but doesn't know. It's just _there_. In the back of her mind. Waiting.

* * *

The bags under his eyes gain more and more prominence.

Regulus smokes during the day now, too, usually accompanied by a swig or two (he doesn't have a problem, after all) of Firewhisky.

His hair gets just that little bit messier.

* * *

Mascara has become her lifeline. Thick, thick, _thicker_. Lipstick, too - which she's technically not supposed to have, but doesn't get called out for - redder, brighter, _bolder_. Concealer really helps with all the stress-spots she's been getting lately.

Her skirt inches higher and higher by the day. It's funny, they all seem to echo Mulciber lately - 'whore-slut' and 'little-harlot' are just two of the catcalls that Mary now wears like a badge of honour.

Mary's reputation has changed from 'angel' to 'devil' in all but a snap of the fingers and the weird thing is, she's okay with it.

* * *

If Regulus could kill, Mulciber would probably be at the top of his list. Above every Mudblood, every member of his family, every stupid fucking _Hufflepuff_, Mulciber reigns supreme.

To put it simply, Mulciber is pissed. Super-pissed.

Getting an exclusion didn't really sit well with him.

* * *

Lily Evans, she decides, is entirely cliche and not _worth_ her time.

Honestly, who the fuck is _that_ perfect? _Really_?

Top marks. James bloody _Potter_ hanging on by a string. Porcelain skin and a heart bigger than Severus Snape's nose.

Also kind-of-sort-of-really annoyingly happy. All the fucking time. Which pisses off Mary, because they're _Mudbloods_. The world sucks for them.

The world sucks in general.

* * *

Colour him crazy, but fifth year is stressful as fuck.

Exam preparation. In September.

He's adding it to the list of 'reasons why he might just about go insane.'

Regulus is intelligent, in that 'quietly so' sort of way. Where he isn't top of the year, but still passes with a decent level of merit that goes unnoticed by his peers. 'Clever' doesn't really get you far with Pureblood Society.

He has a feeling he'll fail, though. He'll turn up and the questions will be everything he hasn't done. Gut instinct.

Maybe it's just nerves. Maybe it's prophetic.

Death Eaters don't really need qualifications anyway.

* * *

Mary's lost all interest in her exams.

Really, what do they matter anyway? She'll probably be struck down by some killing curse or another, and that will be the end of that.

Just another 'tragic muggleborn death' in the paper and nobody will care whether or not she passed her Herbology OWL, if anything, they'll focus on her face. Lament her 'lost beauty' or indifferent that another 'ugly bugger' got on the wrong side of some silly men with wands.

Yes, she speaks dreadfully bluntly of her death (or how she foresees it anyway) - mainly because it is, to her, (and everyone, she supposes, though not quite as much, and isn't there a man out in France somewhere who happens to be immortal?) inevitable.

Sooner or later, she'll be a corpse in the ground and she doubts very much that anyone (except perhaps her family, for a fleeting moment or two) will give a fuck.

* * *

There's a new seating plan for History of Magic.

One that places him in the chair next to hers. Together. As partners. For discussions -which are thankfully, few and far between. So close, they occasionally touch and her arm oh-so-accidentally brushes his -

Fuck.

It takes him a while before he remembers that she hates him. With a passion. For the Mulciber Incident, which he is always trying to _forget_, but is always _there_.

He's a monster to her. He's a monster, full stop.

Craving her touch - he's just a perverted bastard, a villain, except maybe not worthy of such a title, no, for even that requires a little bit of _bravery_.

On some level, he thinks she senses his cowardice.

Doesn't stop her being scared though.

* * *

Mary laughs out of fear.

Not willingly, it just happens. Slips out. Gets her into some pretty awkward situations, too. Reading horror stories. In the dark. During her nightmares. Every single time, no scream. Just laughter.

Thankfully, Professor Binns doesn't seem to notice when she spends his whole lecture on the 1907 Wizarding Massacre giggling her head off.

Regulus Black shoots her some pretty odd looks, too. Which makes it worse, because he looks at her like he's torn between killing her and...well, she's not really sure, but something bad, at the very least.

He's friends with Mulciber. He was there, when -

Regulus Black is out to get her, she's sure of it.

* * *

It rains for days straight.

He sits outside one day, by the lake. It's fine, he doesn't mind. Seems kind of...spiritual, somehow and he's never been one for all that poetic bullshit, but he sits there and he thinks of Mary.

Gryffindor Princess, fallen from her state of grace. Which he played his own little role in, didn't he?

His stomach clenches and he clenches his fist, promising himself of no more, for about the thousandth time. Except she hasn't been eating a lot recently and there's bags under her eyes and he's _worried_ -

Fuck his life.

* * *

Mary hates the rain.

It's bloody October and she's had to conjure up an extra sheet for her bed in the Girl's Dormitory; for the cold.

Sometimes she goes to the Room of Requirement. For the warmth. To read - unlimited supply of books at her fingertips. To do homework. To cry, without anyone being able to see.

The whole 'magic-teenager' thing isn't all that it's cracked up to be.

* * *

The Room of Requirement is a recent discovery for him.

Apparently one of Hogwart's 'worst-kept secrets,' he hears about it eavesdropping on his brother and the Motley Crew (though motley might be the wrong word - they're do-gooder Gryffindors at heart, after all) and immediately runs to Mulciber.

Who, of course, provides him with all the little details on how to get inside.

Regulus truly hates being the last to know things.

* * *

For a second her heart stops beating.

Mary freezes and wonders if there is any way that he _didn't_ just see her, but it's plain to see that he did.

So they're alone. Together. Her and the Pureblood Slytherin who stood there right along with Mulciber, whose been eying her up in History of Magic like he'd...kill her or something.

Regulus stops pacing. She realises that he'd been trying to get into the Room of Requirement and wonders exactly _why_. For something horrifying, no doubt. Connected to You-Know-Who, maybe. Doing charity work and petting fluffy kittens is definitely bottom of the list of things Potential-Death-Eaters do in their free time.

So, she turns to bolt.

* * *

"I'm sorry."

He doesn't mean to let it slip out, but it does. Probably because it's always on his mind - every accidental touch, every History of Magic Lesson, every by-chance time that their eyes meet.

Regulus is always sorry.

Her face twists - nose scrunching up in that way he's many times thought of as adorable - into the 'abandoned puppy' look. Wide (green, _green_) eyes. Confused pout. Just-so-slightly raised eyebrow.

"I don't - "

Clearly, she thinks better of it, sending him one last puzzled gaze before slipping away, back down the stairs. Without another word.

Honestly, he doesn't think he deserves the two that he got.

* * *

Things are awkward between them. Not that they weren't awkward before (normally, they just sit there and don't talk) but now, it's really, really, super-awkward.

Mary has no idea what to say. And '_I'm sorry_?' What the fuck is that supposed to mean, anyway? Why isn't he calling her mudblood and casting slut-shamey things onto her body?

Here is what she knows about Regulus Black: Sirius' brother. Slytherin. Same year. Never takes notes in History of Magic. Pureblood. Friend of the devil. Oh, and _out to join an organisation that would gladly seen her bled dry and decapitated_.

That whole 'apology' back there?

Well, she doesn't know either.

* * *

The one thing he never expected, ever, is for Mary MacDonald, quite out of the blue, to start _speaking_ to him. About the most mundane little thing - but he'll take it. He'll definitely take it.

"Have you done the essay yet?"

Regulus nearly falls out of his seat.

It's the first time (since that whole 'I'm sorry' mishap) she's ever directed actual, physical (from her mouth!) _words_ at him. And they aren't 'fuck you,' or 'I hate you, pureblood scum,' but...schoolwork-discussion-y-_words_.

"Um, no."

Lies. He did it the day they got it, like a loser. Everybody else leaves the History of Magic essays to the last minute, because _yawn_, but Regulus actually..._enjoys_ writing about the Goblin Revolts. But there's no way he's telling her that.

"I don't really get the whole comparison thing." Her face tilts upwards in confusion. "Why is it similiar to the House-Elf Rights Movement again?"

"Well, uh, both failed, for one. And it's - it's basically wizards are pieces of shit who don't give a fuck about any other race."

Mary gives a half-smile that kind of makes him wonder _why_ she's even talking to _him_ in the first place.

* * *

His answer surprises her. As does the fact he even bothered to answer. Regulus Black seems to be full of shocks, lately.

_Death Eater, _she reminds herself, but her brain doesn't listen.

"So, it's um - it's different because House-Elves didn't actually want liberation, right? They were happy being the, uh...subordinate - is that the right word?"

Regulus gives a little nod of the head and shrug of the shoulders. Mary isn't entirely sure what that means, but she carries on anyway.

"But Goblins - they were like, super-pissed at us - " his small snort gives her encouragement to continue, "for the whole '_you can't carry a wand' _rule-thing. They actually wanted it." _  
_

Is she rambling? Yeah, she's rambling. He doesn't point it out though.

"It's a...it's a little like the whole 'pureblood supremacy' now, isn't it?"

_Whoops_.

He meets her eyes for the first time in their whole conversation. Mary expects him to sneer, to yell, call her a 'mudblood' or just ignore her full stop, but he gives a quiet '_yeah_' and turns back to his parchment.

"Talking time over!" Professor Binns calls out - and she is torn between being glad and disappointed because of it.

* * *

_Mudblood_.

_Mudblood_.

_Muggleb-_

Fuck.

There's no way she's..._interested_, anyway, so why is he even bothering?

_Because you're selfish_, that little voice whispers to him, _and you want her, like crazy_.

* * *

She might have overloaded on the black, just a little bit.

Every girl knows that the first Hogsmeade visit of the year is basically an excuse to go all out on the whole '_appearance_' thing. Because wearing robes and uniform every day is probably the biggest drag, like, _ever_.

Even Mary - though the whole _'look-good_' idea might be a waste of time, considering she has nobody to go with.

Friends, to her, used to be fluid. Hang out with Belinda and Lisa one day, Lily and Alice (sure they're a year older, but they don't really care) the next.

Now, it's the ever-fixed state of '_none_.'

* * *

He sees her, standing there, all by herself.

And, fuck, does she wear a _lot_ of black.

Regulus is with Avery, who really doesn't notice that his companion is spending _far_ too much time looking over at the corner of the Hogs Head.

Mary is all on her own, (she seems to spend a lot time like that) which seems to make way for a lot of shady, older men to talk to her. Not that he's jealous or anything.

Actually, it's pretty funny when she bites out some presumably-sarcastic (he sort of wishes he could read lips) comment and they run away. Quickly.

Does he want to buy her a butterbeer and talk to her about life? _Yes_, but that doesn't mean anything. Anything important, at the very least.

* * *

"Hey, um, Regulus?"

His friend has disappeared, thankfully. Probably off to the bathroom or someplace. He was there, with Mulciber, that night. They both were. But by now, she's convinced herself that Regulus is...different. _Somehow_. That he feels at least _some_ regret over hunting down and killing every last one of her species.

He looks up and gives a half-nod of acknowledgement. "Hey."

"I feel bad for asking, but...do you have any money I can borrow?" She waits for the '_why'_ that never comes. "I sort of ordered one too many butterbeers and - "

"Sure." Regulus passes her a couple of galleons. "Go ahead."

"Thanks. I'll pay you back."

To be honest, she never expected him to agree in the first place.

* * *

"Are you signing up, Black?"

The whole future-Death-Eater career looms upon him like a black cloud. Except, unlike a storm, a raincoat and a mug of hot chocolate isn't going to keep him happy.

Some parents push their love of music, or Italian cuisine onto their children. His have the whole Pureblood-supremacy thing going for them.

When he grows up, he's going to be a murderer.

"Yeah, _obviously_."

* * *

They're together.

Nobody else.

Just them.

And she's not like, _attracted_ (those eyelashes though) to him, or anything, but she can really feel how uncomfortable it is. _Really_.

"I have your money." Mary fumbles around in her pockets for a few seconds, before producing it, feeling her face flush as she does so.

"Thanks."

"No problem." She rocks back and forth on her feet a little, pretending to ignore the awkward, before taking a deep breath and deciding to just say what's on her mind. "Why don't you hate me?"

* * *

His mouth feels dry. Really dry. Really, super-dry. "What?" He dreads it, because it's the question he's been asking himself all this time. These past few weeks.

"I mean, uh," she stumbles over her words a little. "I'm a Mud - "

"Fuck. Don't say it." Regulus runs a hand through his hair, trying to avoid meeting her gaze.

"Why not?" Mary seems actually interested now, even...eager for his response, which is probably far dirtier and more shallow than she's probably dreamt up. "You hate people like me."

Well, she kind of has a point.

"Yeah, maybe."

"But you're always nice to me."

That's also true. Dammit, how can he lie his way out of this? '_Because I want to fuck you,'_ doesn't seem like the greatest choice. "I don't like it, you know. Being a Pureblood."

And he really didn't mean to let _that_ slip out.

"I don't hate you. I could - " (_never hate you_) "I don't want to. I like you - " (_more than I'd care to admit_). "We're..." he pauses, "friends. Who don't speak in front of other friends."

"Friends." She makes it sound weird. Why does she make it sound weird? "Okay, yeah we're friends. For sure."

* * *

Mary watches the Ravenclaw-Slytherin Quidditch match and curses the whole way through.

Does he look at her? Maybe that was a little look. But probably not. Probably just the other way. Definitely not at her. At the_mudblood_.

Except he's not like the others. He said so himself.

She remember in History of Magic, fourth year - (whoa, she's actually a little impressed she retained _some_ information) Iric the Insane. Who charmed his muggle victims before he killed them. Became their friend. Then slit their throats when they were asleep.

Maybe Regulus Black is just another Iric the Insane. Lying to her. Preparing to kill her in cold blood.

But, damn, does he look good in Quidditch-Gear.

Okay, maybe she's a little attracted to him.

* * *

Teen Wizard says that if you have a crush on a girl for more than six months, it's love. So yeah, he's a little worried.

Regulus can't pinpoint the exact moment he started staring at the back of Mary MacDonald's head, but it's a lot longer than six months. Maybe a year since then to today. Which is..._fuck_.

Love? Love? He doesn't even _believe_ in the bloody stupid thing. Besides, isn't _love_ reserved for the people you've kissed? Shagged? Planned to spend a future with?

Not Mary MacDonald. He can't be in love with Mary MacDonald. He _won't_ be.

* * *

"Hey, MacDonald."

They're in the corridor. In school. With a bunch of people nearby. Surely not even Mulciber would try anything...?

"Fuck off."

"Ooh, someone's getting snippy. Might have to _report_ _you_ to Dumbledore." He gives her that leering grin, like a cat, with the cream. "Reg wants to fuck you, you know."

Suddenly, she's red. Warmth spreading through her face, in probably the dorkiest blush she's ever worn, hands clammy, body trembling. "Shut up."

"Yeah, I said you would go for him." That stupid, fucking _beam_ again, the one she wants to hex off his face more than anything. "Anything with legs, right MacDonald - ?"

And she doesn't know why (who is she kidding, of course she does) but purely by chance, Mulciber somehow ends up in the hospital wing.

* * *

"You put him in the hospital wing?!"

"Supposedly." Mary stretches out in her seat, leaving him a glimpse of her bare stomach for almost a second. "According to everyone around, I did."

"Shit. That's, um, _scary_. But it also kind of makes my whole year. Is that bad?"

"No. Not at all."

They're in the Room of Requirement. Spending time together. Which is a pretty odd experience, to say the least.

"What curse?"

"Oh, you know that whole itchy boils thing, from Charms?"

Probably, but he doesn't pay a lot of attention. "All over his body?"

"Just the place that matters." A small shrug, in an attempt to seem humble.

Oh.

Ew.

"Why?"

* * *

"He, um, uh - " What can she say? _Because he says you're in love with me? _No, not love, she reminds herself. Love and sex are two very different things. "He implied that you might, um - " Well, it's going swimmingly so far, isn't it?

"Have feelings for you?" His face in unreadble. Blank, expressionless - which surely can't be good. Then again, what is she expecting? She doesn't..._want_ anything to come of it. Does she?

Except lately, being around him, it's getting easier to hear her own heart beat.

"In more vulgar terms, but...um...yeah."

"I don't." Mary's lungs close up, up, _up_ and she can't breathe anymore - and fuck, those can't be tears in her eyes, can they? Tears for him? For Regulus Black. For a Death Eater?

"You don't?" Her voice is sore, broken, a little rough around the edges of each word. Maybe she'll start squeaking soon. Maybe she'll burst into tears completely.

"No." Regulus blinks slowly, rocking back on his feet, as if unsure whether to step forward or back. "I can't."

"So...you won't."

"Won't - "

"Fuck me."

* * *

"Fuck me," Mary repeats, and is he _dreaming_? Because he's had quite a few dreams like this, but this time it feels real. Or it could just be that sleep-effect that convinces you what you're seeing is reality and he's really -

"You won't fuck me." She pauses. "Not that _I_ want to, of course, but if the offer were on the table, you wouldn't do it. You wouldn't want to 'dirty up your blood status' or some bullshit like that."

"I think," he clears his throat, hardly believing they're having this conversation, "if the _offer_ were on the table - as you put it - and this is a hypothetical situation, right?" She nods. "I would...maybe...like that. If it were a one-time thing. And nobody had to know about it."

"Well. Isn't that interesting to know?"

* * *

They stumble into the Room of Requirement blindly, her hands, his hair, his lips, her throat and Mary's never done this before, never even kissed before and he's probably done it with a thousand other girls before her and _oh_ -

Fuck, they're in trouble.

* * *

They don't talk, anymore.

Not after, well..._that_.

Mary can't decide if she's totally relieved, or if her heart has broken beyond repair.

It certainly feels _different_, somehow.

* * *

Sometimes, he misses her.

Professor Binns draws up a new seating plan, and he's switched with Mark Harris, who is tall, gangly and spends all of his lesson time openly staring down Mary's top. And it isn't even Regulus being overly-protective or some bullshit - Mark does it with a shit-eating grin on his face, and from the look of hers, she can tell what he's up to.

He's stuck in the corner now, making awkward conversation with Lindsay Summers - Gryffindor, Half-Blood, possible attraction to goblins - and staring at the back of Mary's head again.

Regulus wishes she would turn round more.

He misses her smile.

* * *

It's not like it was _bad_ or anything.

At least, she doesn't _think_ she was bad. No complaints from him, but he might have just been being _nice_ or something. Then again, do future-Death-Eaters _do_ nice?

(well before, she didn't think they'd _do_ Mudbloods either, but hey, she was wrong on that count)

* * *

A month and two days after they (_a gentleman never tells, his brother used to say_), he kisses her again.

Because he wants to and she wants to, so why should they play the whole 'let's pretend' game?

It leads to some confessions. Confessions he didn't particularly want to _confess_. Nothing of the 'I love you' sort, no, even _he_ isn't that foolish - more along the lines of 'I want to date you in secret,' which basically equates to: 'so we're fucking now, right?' but nicer. And with a please thrown in there somewhere, maybe.

* * *

Mary is a remarkable actress.

After all, in class, she's all 'blank-face, no-opinion on Regulus Black whatsoever,' which she feels she pulls off stunningly well - or maybe that's just because nobody ever asks her about him.

Because seriously, what's the _point_ in having a secret if you can't vehemently deny it at every given opportunity?

* * *

He asks Lizzie Greengrass to Slughorn's Christmas Party. Safe, sensible, not entirely fucked up, as purebloods go. Pretty, when she lets her hair down. Puts on a dress. Cleans up nice and tidy, even shows a little (the barest glimpse of) cleavage.

Mary doesn't get an invite, maybe because her family isn't important, but mostly due to the fact she has the school-record for 'most cauldrons blown up.' Set to get a T in her OWLS. Is it weird that he knows this? She is his - well, he wouldn't say girlfriend but _girlfriend_ \- after all.

They dance the waltz and exchange pleasantries and maybe he drinks a _little_ too much punch, but it's an average evening, overall.

One of which his mother would approve.

* * *

She wears pink on the weekends again.

Smiles, too. People have often told her that her dimples make her look rather fetching, and in this state of mind she can't help but agree.

Mary pulls on her hat, (the one he bought her for her birthday, for the cold and the winter) paints on her lipstick - red, his favourite colour - and _glides_.

* * *

He's wasting away.

_Too thin_, his mother chides, piling more chicken on his plate, eyes sweeping over the empty seat at the end of the table.

Regulus still sees Sirius at school sometimes. They don't talk. Life moves on.

* * *

Pearls. From his Gringrotts account, which contains so much as to be sure nobody will know anything is missing.

Is she his..._mistress_ now or something?

Nobody's ever bought her jewellery before, that of which she's certain. Not pearls, at least. Not something so pure, so perfect. Too much so for her. Overly expensive, as well. But a dreadful shame to waste -

Mary hides away the pearls, (some jewellery box, somewhere) but she doesn't forget.

* * *

Nobody asks him about the pearls.

They're the only ones to ever know.

* * *

Kissing him makes her feel like clouds, and Mary's over the moon. Euphoria. Dopamine. Whatever's making her heart go all _twang_. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Like a drum. Like she's high - except her first (and last) _trip_ was far scarier. Less kissing, more trying to cut her own arm off.

But the good kind of high, she's sure, it's like Regulus Black. Before - back when she was staring, before she had tasted his lips, her stomach was twisted. As if it were in knots, or something, all caught up inside of her.

Now, it's free. She's free. _Fuck_, she's happy.

* * *

It's sort of like _that_.

Click. Click. Click.

Happy. Sad. Happy. Suicidal.

Most (all, to date) of the happy parts are with Mary, the rest with just about everyone else on the planet. Sometimes he just wants to _snap_, but then he remembers _her_ \- and fuck, she said she _loved_ him the other day.

And that cute little curl of her lips - he can't deny her that, as it leaves him breathless, in awe. Of her. Of their relationship (however fucked up it may be) - of how much she would lower her standards. For him. For someone like him.

Love. Him. Maybe they finally mix.

* * *

They're in love.

It's a fairytale ending for her, she's sure.

Off into the sunset, without a care in the world.

It's her and him, together for always.

Happily ever after.

* * *

He takes the Dark Mark in April.

* * *

She finds it in May.

* * *

Regulus didn't plan ahead. He never does. He didn't realise, didn't know -

They aren't exactly world-famous (not yet) but a Mark isn't hard to spot, especially against skin as pale as his.

Then she's crying and he's screaming and it's a blur, but sooner or later they're apart and he's in his bed, with a third bottle of firewhiskey in his hands. It's become almost a ritual by now. Depressed. Firewhiskey. Depressed. Firewhiskey. Repeat. Endlessly.

* * *

She's still happy.

Perfectly fine, in fact. Brilliant. Wonderfully brilliant. Exam preparation is actually going well for her - even in Potions. Last assignment, she scraped a pass mark. No cauldrons burst for at least three weeks.

It's not as if they were serious. Fuck, they were the only two that _knew_, if you don't count Mulciber's surprisingly-accurate suspicions. Not as if they meant anything.

Regulus Black is in no way shape or form, Prince Charming. Mary understands that now. But he's out there somewhere. Waiting for her. He'll come, one day.

It'll be special. They'll get married, her and this mystery man. A white wedding, with both their families in attendance, laughing, cheering, smiling with the (perfect, they'll be) couple.

Uncomplicated, but beautiful. And she'll be happy.

* * *

Of course his family won, how could they not? Blood is thicker than water after all, even if the water tasted sugary sweet, a little like coconut -

But anyway.

It wouldn't have worked out. It couldn't have lasted. He's going to be paired off soon, engaged to some pureblood girl probably in the same mind about it as him, to somebody he could learn to love, (though, he would settle for toleration) if he tried.

Family is first and foremost. Sirius had abandoned them heartlessly, left him there without a brother, merely a burn-mark on the tapestry and Regulus doesn't want to follow him.

He's sixteen and scared. He doesn't want to lose anyone else.

* * *

This one day, Mary's walking in the corridor, just quietly by herself, thinking about food, when she sees _Him_.

With another member of Mulciber's fanclub, (then again, she supposes that's only really because of You-Know-Who) but that doesn't really matter, because it's _Him_.

They're probably discussing Death-Eater tactics (that's what he does now, what he is now) and her eyes only meet his (fuck, they're too _green_) for half a second, yet it feels like a punch in the gut. He doesn't acknowledge her existence. Why would he?

There was no 'let's remain friends,' because they were never friends in the first place. Not in public, not in private, no matter how much they'd like to pretend.

She bites back tears, represses the urge to punch the wall and proceeds to class. But she doesn't shake that sick, swirly feeling in her stomach for the rest of the day. Hell, if she ever does.

* * *

He's spiralling.

Regulus has gone from _up, up and away_ to _down, down and out _and it's not a good feeling, not in the least. It's almost as if something inside of him is breaking - not his heart (if he even has one, he bets they'll never find it) but something deep inside his chest.

All the butterflies in his stomach have been murdered and holy shit, it _hurts_. He wonders when it's going to stop. He wonders if it ever will.

Because there she is, all red-lipstick and smiles, with that little smirk of hers, that flash in her eyes. As if they never were.

He misses her. He hates to admit it, but he does.

* * *

They don't find their way back together, in the end. Often, people never do. Some part of him always hopes - even as he's drinking from the chalice, as he's writhing on the floor in agony, well aware he's about to die.

It doesn't end in a fairytale for him (he's never believed, after all) but she finds another one, with another man, another life. There is no funeral but she toasts - to him - a shot of firewhiskey and a black dress. Pearls, too. She remembers the pearls. Wraps them around her neck and smiles, red-lipstick and all.

He should have seen her in them. They make her look pretty good.

Mary doesn't cry. Regulus didn't - at least, not to her knowledge - after all. He would rather she be at peace with it, she thinks maybe.

Then again, she also thinks he'd get off on the fact his death kind-of broke her, just a little bit. He died before his time, before he should have. Maybe they'll be reunited one day, but she has a new boyfriend now, a new fairy-tale and things look...hopeful.

His name is Reg. It's almost like fate.

She's always believed in that.

* * *

I don't own: Harry Potter, Frank Sinatra, or Iris.

So? Finally complete, though I feel like Part Two is a little shaky.

Part One: Thanks to:

**jg2000** \- for the request. I hope you enjoyed.

**Ibbonray** \- I'm glad you liked it!

**nerdyninjaunicorn** \- I sure can, though it might take a while due to the request list being kinda long.

Part Two: Thanks to:

**nerdyninjaunicorn - **thanks. I know it's a pain!

**sfox88** \- I feel this way about movie!Ron/Hermione, but I love the two in the books. I'd say Harry/Ginny leans towards this more - in the books, you can sort of see Ron/Hermione from the start. So who do _you_ ship then? I know Draco/Hermione and Harry/Hermione is pretty popular, but personally I can't stand either of these.

**Pula Nuvem** \- sure thing! I've never written him before, but he seems pretty interesting.

As always, review, request, or tell me your favourite chapter!


	34. Ending - DracoAstoria

Ending

Draco/Astoria

Warnings: swearing, sex references, violence, AU

Music: Éric Is Dead, Panda Su

* * *

"Astoria."

It's a name he's dwelt little time on, of a girl he barely thinks about, but Draco breathes it like it's the last thing left in the world and who knows, maybe it is.

Little Greengrass. He'd never expect to see her here. Thinner. Even more fragile - like one touch would shatter her into pieces, but with a look in her eyes that could make Harry Potter scared.

"I'll blow your fucking head off, Malfoy." She jabs the wand closer to his neck, so it presses against his veins in a mildly-uncomfortable manner, practically foaming at the mouth with a strange mixture of rage and fear. It's not an attractive sight. Not that she was ever a thing of beauty to begin with. "Now tell me, did you get bitten?"

* * *

They said there would be an apocalypse.

Only Voldemort (and no disrespect to the guy, he was pretty fucking scary) ain't got nothing on flesh-eating zombies.

* * *

"Why do you use a wand?"

After they've established that he is not, in fact, Infected, and will be repressing brain-craving urges for the foreseeable future, they trek onward, away from the zombiefest they'd just witnessed.

It had been all Potter-like, as if he were some kind of hero, with bam! kick! bash! up until the point where he was captured and about to be eaten. When she had arrived. A familiar face, in a sea of horrifically-deformed, bloody, vein-y ones.

A reminder of home, if his home had not been destroyed and burnt to the ground shortly after the Infection had begun, and everyone he ever loved turned into mindless, blood-lusting animals.

And on that happy note...

"Sometimes, you have to do things the muggle way," he continues, "and really, I find the machine gun quite effective."

She didn't fight in the battle, he remembers. She was too young.

This time around, nobody really has a choice.

"Do you always do this?" Her face twists into a scowl - and Draco can't help but smirk at the look on her. "Talk, loudly? We aren't the predators here, Malfoy. We're being hunted."

"That...is so cheesy. Did you steal that from a book, or something? Sounds like something that prick Lockhart would have written."

He receives a glare in response, which he feels is quite unnecessary, as it was a fair remark. "I'll be laughing my head off when yours gets torn open."

Ooh. Burn. She's grown rather more vulgar, from the sweet, innocent girl he remembers. Shy, hid behind her hair, far less pretty and confident than her sister. All that seems to have changed, but then again, fighting off the undead does do that to a person.

"How is Daphne?"

"Dead."

"Oh, really?"

"No, I was kidding."

He can't decide if that last part was sarcasm or not, so he makes to leave the topic. Not a particularly nice one to dive into anyway. The whole our-relatives-are-dead-thinCg. "How did you survive, anyway?"

It's been a year. She's what, seventeen? Add that to the whole pureblood-brat demeanour, and you get one prime-target for an attack. Which clearly hasn't happened yet, considering how alive she is.

"Oh, well, I betrayed my friends, made a few enemies, fell in love, the whole textbook-apocalypse, y'know?"

Definitely sarcasm.

"Not a lot of purebloods survived. After the war, and then the Plague and..."

"Please, Draco. You know that title has no meaning now, right?" Astoria gives a little snort, carrying on along the road, wand pointed defensively forward. "Not that it ever did."

Of course he does. Why else would he carry around muggle weapons and associate with someone who, before, would have been known as a blood-traitor? "Have you seen Potter and Pals anywhere lately?"

"Ran into them a while back. Ginger and Muggleborn are fucking. Potter's more concerned with not-dying, Longbottom was Inferi-fied, Little Ginger killed him and Crazy-Eyes is even more insane."

"You're joking, right?"

"About which part?"

"Granger and Weasley." Ugh. He thinks he might gag at the very thought. "And it's not Inferi, Astoria."

She looks at him like he's mad. "What?"

"These are zombies. Inferi don't infect. Also, they weren't raised by a wizard. Merlin, Greengrass, it's been a year, surely you know all of this?"

She shrugs. "Does it really matter?"

Considering the whole 'matter of life or death, could be eaten alive,' situation, he'd say yeah, it does. He doesn't say anything though. What's the point in it? "So, what spells do you use?"

"Bombarda Maxima, whenever I can. Incendio works well too."

"Kill them with fire. Good idea, I guess."

Astoria looks as though he's just insulted her...mother, or something. Or not, considering her mother was a heinous bitch, who is now long dead. Ooh. Best not to bring that up. "So, how'd you do it then?"

He smirks. "Shitstorm of bullets."

"Remind me to never piss you off."

Draco shrugs. "Works though. Far more effective than a wand. Tell me again why you use one?"

"I like how it feels in my hand."

He almost chokes at that one. Then wiggles his eyebrows and smirks. "I'm sure I can find something you'd enjoy just as much."

She hits him.

They fight zombies together now. It's strangely comforting, having a companion.

He'd kill her in seconds, if she ever got turned.

Draco's since adapted to her wand technique, mainly because he has yet to find another gun in a zombie-infested, post-apocalyptic England. Damn muggle gun laws. Things would be far easier across the pond.

Him and Astoria make with the ass-kicking (she's kicking the ass and his ass is the ass getting kicked) and all is good. All is...strange, but good. Nice, even. As nice as an apocalypse can be, that is.

Things weren't perfect before. Things aren't perfect now. It's the way the world works for him.

* * *

He's woken at dusk, at the prompt of Astoria and some garbled message he can't quite make out, but sounds...serious. Well, everything is with her, but this sounds especially so.

They run blindly in the dark, her hand tugging on his (in a non-romantic way, he's sure, Greengrass doesn't do affection) for what feels like miles, out of town. Out somewhere he doesn't know. They're always moving, but that's a gradual process. Slow, steady, over weeks and months.

This isn't moving. This is fleeing.

"Astoria?"

She doesn't respond, simply settles on the grass, knees tucked into her chest. Hair strewn everywhere, mud stains on her face, her body...she looks wild. Torn apart. He thinks maybe she still looks a little pretty, but he doesn't say anything about it. He's never said anything about that. They have boundaries. They don't cross them. Especially not now, of all times.

"What did you see?"

For a moment or two, he considers shaking her out of it. But, in this state, she might fall apart in his hands.

"Astoria?"

Is she going to cry? Hell, he hopes she won't cry. Crying girls aren't top of the list of Draco Malfoy's strong points - not that there's many of those. Thankfully, she keeps the tears to a barely-watery minimum, but her chin still shakes as she lifts her head. Her whole body trembles with her voice as she speaks.

"Daphne."

* * *

"So are you two fucking now, or what?"

They go back, of course.

How Daphne Greengrass managed to stay alive, he doesn't really know. Even as she speaks, she's still more concerned with raiding the current house's closet for shoes. He gets an image of her running from zombies in pink heels and snorts aloud.

"No."

Thankfully, Astoria isn't there to hear the comment - no doubt she would blame him, somehow - and is downstairs in the kitchen, sullenly refusing to talk to either of them.

"Shocking. What happened to Mister-I-get-into-every-girl's-pants-Malfoy?"

He never existed, but he doesn't tell her that.

"What d'you think? Too revealing?" Mk

She pulls up the very definition of little-black-dress against herself. For a minute or two, he imagines Astoria wearing it, but those thoughts escape soon enough. He figures they're just a result of spending too much time with one person and one person only - he's attracted to her, he won't deny, but it's just a an illness.

"No problem for you, I'm sure," he says dryly. "What gives you the impression I'm doing your sister?"

"You're kidding, right?" She inspects the chipped nail polish on her pinky, tutting at him as she does so. "Astoria doesn't let anyone help her. She's what you call independent. I call it bitch, but we have our different opinions. Never lets anyone in, builds up these walls, shuts everyone out. Virus comes, it's the same thing. She fucking shooed me away in a zombie apocalypse, for fuck's sake. A year later, I find you and her have become best chums. It's only natural to assume - "

She trails off at this point, leaving him no doubt what she assumes.

"And it's the same with you." Her eyes take on an accusing glare. "Why else would you stick around, Malfoy?"

* * *

"Why do we have to keep her around?"

It's been two days. Apparently Astoria is already fed up with her sister.

"Things were fine before. When it was just us."

Yeah. Them. Malfoy and Greengrass, against the world.

"She's not so bad." It's not that he likes Daphne. She's still that same girl she used to be, back in Hogwarts. Sort of like how...he used to be. Except he changed. He grew up. It's just that he's sick of people he knows dying. Over and over again. "She's your family after all."

She stops and tunes, getting a hard-to-explain look in her eye. "You're sleeping together, aren't you?"

"What is it with you bloody women and conclusions?"

"Daphne sleeps with everyone," Astoria says matter-of-factly, "It's only fair to think that you two are doing it as well."

"Well we aren't." He could laugh at the thought. Or scream. Either one works.

"Good."

He raises an eyebrow.

"Just don't want you to get diseases, that's all."

"Sure thing."

And then he smiles.

* * *

I don't own: Harry Potter, Eric is Dead, or any of the various zombie movies this was inspired by.

chocolatecheesecakes - for the request, hope you enjoyed

sfox88 - tbh, I prefer the minor characters anyway. They're more fun to play with.

As always review/request!


	35. Choices - PeterLily

Choices

Peter/Lily

Warnings: swearing

Music: Please, Please, Please Let Me Get What I Want, the Smiths

* * *

Lily's nice to him.

Sometimes there's this thought - this tiny, fleeting thought (not even long enough to be a thought, really) - that maybe, maybe the others...they don't like him. They just sort of _tolerate_ him.

They get mad, sometimes. When he doesn't know things, when he laughs too hard, when he follows them around too much.

"You're like a little lost puppy, Wormtail," James says one day.

"Stalker's more the word for it," Sirius butts in, and they all laugh at that, don't they? At silly little Peter, who doesn't have any other friends but them.

And then there's Lily.

There's this tiny little moment - this moment, this truly glorious moment, when they're all together, all the Gryffindors and all the others: James; Sirius; Marlene; Remus; Dorcas, they all go speeding off into the distance. But Lily - Lily Evans, the girl who's been rejecting James-fucking-Potter (and most of the girls fancy _him_, Peter's been told) for four fucking years now - hangs back.

With him. To walk with him - he can't and won't run - to talk with him, even if he's not worthy. Even if he's a freak, like they say.

And suddenly (actually, it's more of a gradual process, but it feels sudden) that hair gets a little redder, a little more glossy in the light. Those hips get rounder, curvier, legs more shapely. Even her eyes are greener (James would come up with one of those fancy words to describe them, but Peter's not good with words) somehow.

He might have a chance, he thinks. Sure, he's not Prince Charming, but he's nice. Friendly. Patient. His hair doesn't look too bad on a good day. Maybe he can win her over with his personality, like in those witch-romance-books he reads on occasion. Mainly because Sirius says they're good for picking up girls.

He supposes he's in love, and it's a marvellous feeling, at first.

Before he realises - before he sees that look of adoration he has reflected back onto her own face. For him. For James. The perfect friend, the smart friend, the wonderful, funny, now-mature friend.

Who the girl of his dreams happens to be utterly in love with.

And his heart breaks and shatters, but nobody knows, because he never told them. Even if they did, they wouldn't care. Nobody gives a damn about Peter Pettigrew, nobody, not his friends, not Lily Evans.

They get married of course. Fairytale wedding. Bride in white. James - handsome as ever. It makes Peter sort-of want to puke, but he holds it in and pretends it's a case of overeating. Immediately accepted as an excuse, obviously. He's always been the too-chubby one.

Fat, Sirius said once. F-A-T.

Who could ever love someone like that? Obese (practically a beached whale, he thinks to himself sometimes) greasy, acne-fied. Un-fucking-lovable. All he wants, all he's ever wanted is to fit in, but that's next to near impossible when you look like the offspring of a Hippogriff and a Goblin.

They walk up the aisle. Play that dun-dun-dun-dun song, which might as well be the death of him. He wants to take out his wand and just -

No.

He waits.

Peter's always been patient.

Then - then, there is war on the horizon and they'll sell him out as soon as they get the chance. He can just imagine Sirius' smug little face and he wants to curse the image to bits. There's still a part of him, of course, that thinks _wait_ \- but that part is smothered by the beating of his broken heart, the echoing of his mind -

They'll betray him. He's sure. They've always betrayed him as friends. Sirius. Remus. James. They laughed at him, all through Hogwarts, probably even now. Silly little Peter. And Lily - Lily, she doesn't give a toss about him.

She. Picked. James.

So he picks the Dark Lord.

* * *

I don't own: Harry Potter or the Smiths.

A/N: phew. There we go! I know it's short, I'm sorry. Next up: Scorpius/Rose.

Thanks to:

**sfox88** \- for the request, I hope you liked!

chocolatecheesecakes - you're right. I do love Draco.


	36. Dream - MariettaAstoria

Dream

Astoria/Marietta

Warnings: smoking, non-graphic sex

Music: Just Like Heaven, the Cure.

* * *

She's two years younger than you.

And yet - and yet, the important bit - you know her tongue's taste off by heart, could map out her lips with your fingers, all that sort of carnal knowledge you really aren't supposed to have.

Astoria and Marietta, the traitors who fuck in the dark.

She's thin - thinner than you, so fragile she could break (sometimes you worry you'll snap her in two), but with that same essence of bitch that seems to come with all Purebloods, that definitely comes with you.

You're a S-N-E-A-K, but not really anymore, because you tried to join the DA again. They wouldn't let you. They wouldn't let her, either.

Astoria's betrayal was noblility, punished by small-mindedness. Yours - yours was cowardice, met with justice.

"We'll start our own club," she had said one day, "a secret one, just us." That's how it had begun, you remember, that was when she had kissed you and you had finally felt.

Emotion.

What a marvellous, wonderful thing.

* * *

Now it's a dance, night and day, alone together. The Ravenclaws, the Slytherins. A dance you know from memory, her heartbeat, your sweaty palms. Sitting in cupboards waiting for an opportunity to sneak back out again.

Her cheeks are rosy-red and her lips are like honey and if you could, you would compare her to an angel. You know she wouldn't like that. Astoria's never been one for the good-girl type, even if she acts it, with her demure little skirts and graceful smiles, her polished hands and manicured nails.

She's the perfect Pureblood child. One can't help but wonder what would happen if her parents met you. No good, probably.

"We'll fight," you tell her softly, rubbing her cheek with your thumb, "together, in the war."

You think you're ready, now. To fight. For Potter - for good, for once in your life. The Right Thing.

And she agrees, because she is brave. Braver than you, braver than anybody you know. Astoria Greengrass is strong, she is unbreakable, she is twice the person you'll ever be, Marietta Edgecombe.

(but she hasn't told her parents and the Slytherins don't know, and, and - )

Girls aren't supposed to like girls. You know this. They're supposed to like blonde boys with blue eyes, but her eyes are the prettiest you've ever seen (all green and fleck-y and indescribable) and she does this thing with her hands and, oh, merlin, are you in love?

Well. Are you?

You'd never believed in love, before. Told Cho (poor, poor Cho) - told Cho that Cedric was just a phase. After he died, after she stayed up all night, crying, you maybe did, but you didn't like it. You like it now. You like it now and it'll wreck you, like it wrecks everybody else.

Not Astoria.

You've always been so deathly serious, Marietta. She's the giggly one, the one who doesn't need to worry about dying, because she has her family's status, but supports Potter anyway.

You ask her to tell. Ask her to run away with you. Astoria laughs her fucking nut off. It's the way the world works.

* * *

They crucio you. The Carrows wave their fucking wands and the pain comes. You taste ashes and the inside of her mouth. Your soul is burning and her face - her fucking face - Astoria.

You don't see her for awhile, after that. Not even in your dreams, which is where she usually belongs. All teasing and provocative, until you chase her and she fades away into nothing. Not anymore. They're mostly colourless now. All black and grey. Your insides being ripped out.

Only the usual.

Until the day of It. The Battle. Smoking a cigarette, curled up on the steps, just before the fighting starts. Blonde hair fanned out around her, like an angel. Just like Heaven. Pretty little mouth carved up into a smirk. Far older than she should be, but she's always been that.

You breathe her name. She looks past you, out onto the grounds. You can already feel it - the blood, about to be spilt, the death, the pain and she isn't fighting, is she?

A simple shake of the head in your direction, barely visible to the naked eye.

Astoria Greengrass.

You'll see her again, of course you will, with Draco, with the others (ex-Death-Eaters) holding her head in pride, wearing her perfect little wedding ring, not paying you the slightest bit of attention.

But you fought.

You won, for Potter, for good and Christmas and puppies and whatever else. You fought and finally - finally - you aren't a sneak. You aren't a traitor. You aren't the girl in the shadows, playing in the dark.

You're Marietta Edgecombe and you're _strong_.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter or the Cure. Or the Buffy quote toward the end.

I know, I know, I'm supposed to be doing requests, but I just wanted to post this. Scorpius/Rose will come soon, I promise!

Thanks to:

nerdyninjaunicorn - I think Peter seems like the sort of person who just gives off that kind of vibe. I can understand why he did what he did.

blackriddle711 - Fred/George in a romantic way? I'll write them platonic but incest just freaks me out, I'm sorry. As for Bellamort, that's already been requested, so you can expect to see that soon!


	37. Hollow-Point - ScorpiusRose

Hollow-Point

Scorpius/Rose

Warnings: swearing, alcohol, drugs

Music: Bulletproof Heart, MCR

* * *

Girls hate him.

Actually, they don't. _Popular_ girls hate him.

Why wouldn't they? He's the goth, weird son of one of the country's most famous Death Eaters. For fuck's sake, he listens to _Joy Division_. It's not exactly a great conversation starter, is it?

Love will tear him apart, he's pretty sure of _that_ fact. Probably already has. He's started to like Indie. _Indie_. That's how fucking screwed he is.

Nobody wants someone who cries themselves to sleep. To the sound of the Cure, no less. Scorpius is starting to realise that now. Nobody wants a Morrisey-wannabe who complains about their life every chance they get.

Especially (and this is the part, this is the part where it hurts) not Rose Weasley.

* * *

He falls in love to My Chemical Romance.

Hermione Granger and her husband are abroad over the summer. Political issues, or something along those lines. So there's a party, obviously. There's always a party, except this time he's invited.

They're friends. Him and Rose. He pretends this is the truth, but in reality, they're just Potions partners. Maybe. They talk from time to time, about useless, trivial things like the weather and school and she's just an ordinary girl. That's it. That's all he feels for her. But he gets invited, to this party - to this display of popularity and vanity not unlike something from the Great Gatsby - and so he goes.

Scorpius sits with his drink (firewhisky, a lot of it) in the corner and doesn't speak to anyone.

And apparently (according to the playlist) she's also into the muggle scene. But not his sort of thing. Definitely not. The playlist is all pop-punk, all Green Day and Fallout Boy and it's _really_ not to his taste. At all. It's sugary and upbeat and clearly meant to be punk at the same time, but _not_. It's a fallacy. Walks both worlds and belongs to neither. Simply put, it's trash.

But then - then, then, she is _dancing_. To MCR, mouthing the words to _Bulletproof Heart_ and it sort of hits him. That...he's never really noticed how pretty she is and maybe she _does_ have a hollow-point smile - and _fuck_, is he quoting the lyrics now?

He wonders blindly what a hollow-point smile even _is_ (Rose Weasley most definitely does not have one, anyway) and downs some more of his drink.

* * *

So in Potions, he confronts her, because it seems like the thing to do. Conversation and all, not that he's good at it. Especially around - well, he was going to say pretty girls, but Rose Weasley isn't pretty. Not at all. No way.

"I came to your party," he starts, then trails off, because he sounds like a _total_ stalker, even if she did invite him.

She looks vaguely-interested, which is an accomplishment in itself. "Oh, yeah?"

"I can't believe your music taste." He makes a face at her, meaning clear. "You like _Nickelback_?"

Her face brightens up at this, even if it is (well-justified) criticism and she smiles again. Hollow-point. He found it out. Like a bullet, like those muggle weapons they use to kill, but somehow, it fits. "You listen to muggle music?"

"Yep." He pauses, then repeats. "You like _Nickelback_?"

"Only that one song," she protests, though she's grinning at him. "What do _you_ like then?"

He debates mentally what to tell her. Something classy? Or something more punk, more scream-y? Or so totally out there nobody's ever heard of it? "I, uh, a lot." He's already berating himself in his head, with such sarcastic quips as 'way to go, Malfoy,' when he just decides to be honest. "Do you know Joy Division?"

"Um, no." Well, he tried. It wasn't as if she would, what with her other tastes in music. Ian Curtis doesn't exactly go hand in hand with pop-punk. "I listen to, um, MCR, Bastille, that sort of stuff mostly." She pauses, nose twitching. "Though," Rose adds, "I do have a soft spot for Lou Reed."

He grins at this, nearly knocking his cauldron off the table. "Solo, or Velvet Underground?"

"I love both, but...solo."

Fuck, how he's fallen.

* * *

They're friends now. Not like before, where it was sort of a cautious word, an I-don't-hate-her-like-everyone-else, but now, it's real. They talk. Not just about music, though it's definitely a big issue. And maybe - _maybe_, her taste isn't quite as awful as he thought. She tells him about muggle television and when he gets home for the Easter holidays, he watches every episode of Game of Thrones (away from his father's view, of course) and maybe - _maybe_, he's happy.

Doesn't tell his family, of course, because she's still a Weasley, but he doesn't tell them much anyway.

She writes to him, tells him about this muggle film she likes. It's about a man and a boy, she says, (but not in the creepy way, she adds as an afterthought) and the title is a Nirvana reference, which pretty much has him hooked and she thinks he'll like it. Scorpius never watches it, but he always appreciates the thought.

Nobody writes to him, after all.

Everybody likes Rose Weasley. Which is why it's a surprise when she hangs out with him. He's a loser, (yeah, she says later, but he's _her_ loser) not even worthy of his father, a fucking ex-death-eater. Not Slytherin (maybe he should've been, would've pleased the family) but Ravenclaw, a fucking Ravenclaw who can't even tell when he's not wanted.

But those thoughts - those _thoughts_, they go away. When she writes. When she talks to him. When he listens to her shitty music and thinks about that (hollow-point, hollow-point, hollow-fucking-point) smile.

And he's happy.

* * *

There's another party. It's a Weasley trait, after all.

It's not hers, it's her cousin's (Roxanne, he thinks her name is) but she brings them all along. All her friends (about ten of them) giggling, high-society pink wearing girls and him. So that's...weird.

Roxanne, she tells him, is into wizard-punk. Which he can tell, from the screaming in the background. Apparently, the Weird Sisters aren't hardcore enough for her. There's alcohol, basically the reason he came, and a lot of it. He stays away from the coke, mainly because Rose does too. And while her friends are popping pills and smelling colours, they get drunk.

They stumble into a room together, barely registering that it's empty and _why_ are they still fully clothed? She smells like firewhiskey, which isn't an altogether bad thing and fuck -

He wants to kiss her. He knows he wants to kiss her, because there's a fucking Blondie song playing in his head.

Not that he minds Blondie. Actually, he quite likes it. He quite likes Rose.

But they don't kiss. It doesn't even seem to cross her mind and she takes his hand and laughs instead. They dance, to the crazy wizard-punk music and she falls asleep on his shoulder. He watches her, sighs, then takes her home.

And he's fucking drunk off his ass. Repressed. Frustrated. Alone.

Scorpius wants to go home. He doesn't know where home is.

* * *

She gets a boyfriend.

His name is Robert Smith (not that he's ever even _heard_ of the Cure) and he's the son of a war hero, apparently, but he spends his time playing Quidditch and excelling in everything known to man. Probably sings, too. Scorpius thinks Smith would be in one of _her_ indie bands, singing about love and bullshit and fucking fairytales, because that's the type of guy he seems to be.

So Scorpius goes back to Bauhaus at full-volume and eyeliner and not-socialising. It's what he was made for, after all. Status quo, restored. Nobody even acknowledges this, because they didn't acknowledge _him_ in the first place. Rose and Robert. Bloody perfect couple. All Hogwarts talks about.

They make awkward conversation in Potions about the weather and school and all that other trivial bullshit, and his head is all '_Heaven Knows I'm Miserable Now_,' except he'll _never_ get what he wants, not once in his life.

He wasn't looking for anything, but it _still_ got taken away from him. Actually, that's archaic, because Rose would hate to be thought of as a possession and fuck knows she's stronger and better than him -

And if anyone belongs to anyone, it's him to her.

* * *

"You're a chauvinistic pig." It takes him a while to realise who exactly she's talking to, because he's slightly delirious. Also unsure of what he did. Which somehow ended him up in the Hospital Wing. Huh. Weird. "I cannot believe you, Scorpius Malfoy."

Oh. The Quidditch Match. _Oh_.

_He's getting fucking sick of parties. But there is one, because Ravenclaw won the cup and obviously he has no say in it, so it goes ahead anyway. Scorpius didn't see the game (he never does) but apparently (according to everyone's gushing praises) darling Robert won the match. 190-10, or some other fucking ridiculous score that really doesn't surprise him. _

_Slayer is playing in his mind. That's never really a good sign. _

_And all of a sudden (as if by magic) he's drunk - again. Throwing punches and making a total fool of himself, because that's what goth, weird losers do. _

_Because it's her. Her. Her, but she's with him. He punches (weak, ineffectual) because he can't take it and because he's an idiot. A real fucking big idiot, who should've kissed her when he had the chance and that's when he blacks out._

Well. That was bracing, clearly. No sign of Smith anywhere. Scorpius suspects his opponent got away entirely clean. No fucking scratches anywhere. He's not exactly skilled at the whole 'fighting' thing. "I'm sorry."

She punches him in the arm.

"Stop hitting me. I'm injured." He pauses. "I meant what I did."

To his dismay, Rose starts tearing up, backing away from him. The look in her eyes is almost feral. "You didn't have to fucking _fight_ for me."

He stops. Blinks. Swallows. Stares at her. "Um, I - " and she smiles her special (_hollow-point_) smile for him, even through her tears, "You're with Robert Smith. The bad one. Not the cool one. Not the one with the eyeliner and the Cure, the Quidditch-playing perfect one - "

"We broke up. Last week." She raises an eyebrow at him, as if he should have known this before he started drinking. "Everyone knows about it."

Fuck. This is why he should have friends. Hogwarts Gossip has it's uses. "Why'd you...?" Not really his place. Or he guesses it is, because she's flirting with him. He thinks. Maybe. Possibly.

"He's the most boring person on the planet."

Oh. That explains things. Very much. In fact, he had already guessed. "And I'm - "

"A total fucking weirdo," she finishes, beaming. "But I always thought you were kinda cute."

Is this some violence-induced hallucination? Because things like that never happen to him. Ever. It's like some teen comedy bullshit, right there, and if it's not real, he's not having any of it. Getting his hopes up, then opening his eyes to a world where she's still dating a Tosser and he's still a loser -

She kisses him.

Yeah. It's real.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter, or anything referenced here.

Thanks to:

**guest** \- for requesting this. I think you might have been the guest who reviewed last chapter as well? I'm sorry it takes so long, but telling me to 'just update already' is a little off-putting too. Anyways, hope you enjoyed!

**NiceSlytherin** \- aw, thanks! I get what you mean about the repetitive part, though, too. I have a tendency to do that, I admit.

**blackriddle711** \- thanks! Bellamort will be up next :)

Also, I hate to self-promote, but I have a new Marauders fic, if any of you are interested in that.

:)


	38. Worship - BellatrixVoldemort

About Redemption

Bellatrix/Voldemort

Warnings: swearing, death, satanic references

Music: Rev 22 20 - Puscifer

* * *

5

Vol-de-mort.

She whispers the word to herself, (only to herself, of course, only to herself) with guilt. Guilt and shame and reverence.

And maybe she's a fool. Her lips are still ripe, her cheeks still rosy, (she is young, so young) but she can see power. On the horizon, for him, for her.

(for together, perhaps)

Bellatrix is just nineteen, but she'll rule the world someday. The wizards in their place, a pure, untainted society. Mudbloods and muggleborns crushed beneath their feet.

A golden throne. She'll share with him.

Intimacy is lies, lies and sex - her and Rodolphus - and it's meaningless, not special. She doesn't need it, (he doesn't want it) she won't have it.

Affection - true, real affection - she convinces herself, is transcendent. Spiritual. Hypothetical. Physical contact is just existential proof of love, unnecessary, but desperately wanted.

Not by her, though. Not by her.

And she doesn't believe in princes, or white knights, that's never been her thing. No storybook Pureblood tales for her, no, no.

He is dark. Solitary. Merciless.

(and fuck, she revels in it)

* * *

4.

A piece of her rips, when he falls.

(there's no way of knowing, but - )

She feels it in her chest and her head, this dull-aching-throbbing that leads to a scream.

It's like she's been sucked dry, rid of all the lucidity that ever was inside of her. Subconsciously, consciously, somehow.

Not a real magic, of course, though she's dabbled in occlumency before. The emotion - the feeling - it's not that.

It's like their souls are entwined, somehow. Yes, that seems right, logical, perfectly believable to her. Whatever pain he feels, she (thinks she does, is sure she does) feels it too.

And the pain, the pain - no, it's not pain, it's death, death and dying.

But there's no way, no way of knowing, not for sure, not for definite, not for absolutely-gone -

Until there is news.

She slits the messenger's throat. A consummation, if you will, of her and darkness, because He is dead, truly dead, gone forever.

Bellatrix loved him, maybe. But now - now - there is nothing.

Only the black.

* * *

3.

Sometimes, the devil whispers to her.

(hiss, hiss, hiss)

Of sin and secrets, the dirty lies the Dementors tell, over and over again. About Him, too. About Him and Her and forever and always.

Sometimes, she forgets he is dead.

There is no light in Azkaban. There is no light in Bellatrix.

It's a marvellous system, really, when she thinks about it.

Sometimes, the devil takes His face.

He promises her the world on a silver platter, bloody and rare, promises her together and the purest of affections.

And Bellatrix laughs, laughs, laughs. High and shrill, like a scream, which is funny, because aren't the two similar?

She's his most loyal servant, she knows. Her sister, her fucking brat sister (not the mudblood, that scum is relation) is back at home, husband doting, food fucking fresh.

Like a good little housewife, like Bellatrix has never been.

But she is still worshipping. Still revering his name. Hunched over in prayer, rags sweeping the floor, still laughing. Her body her church, her mind her temple. The Dark Lord her unforgiving, wonderous God.

Alone in her cell with just the devil for company.

* * *

2.

There is escape.

Finally, finally, she is radiant.

In the sun, at last, free from hell, from the ever-burning of fires of Azkaban. Out, with no loss but her soul.

He is risen. He is light. He is glory.

That little hum in her head, the buzz-buzz-buzz of people's words, (the devil's whispers) disappears into the glow.

He rewards her, of course. Rewards her, allows her backs into his circle, like she's wanted for so long.

She waited, she waited, she fucking waited.

(she's his most loyal, after all)

Takes Pettigrew's place, Wormtail the rat-beast, because he doesn't love him, not like her.

The snivelling coward, running from fame. She takes pride in the name. It's what she is, it's what she does.

Her religion, her life, her everything.

* * *

1.

Her war is a dance.

A twist of limbs, a shake of wands. Murder, murder, blood, blood. Sugar and spice and all things nice.

They'll win. Potter in cold blood, Potter dead. Together. A world untainted, a world beautiful.

She laughs in glee, sends some sparks someone's way, dances her dance a few minutes more. Shots fired, children dead and dying - Bellatrix has never cared for little brats anyway. Strangely, she's happy. No, not happy. Euphoric.

Love is a manipulative bastard of a thing, after all.

And then.

And then.

(the pain, oh the pain, it feels like - )

It's a dum-dum-dum, a split-second of a moment. The realisation doesn't hit her. It never hits her. She's still laughing, still laughing.

As she dies, she thinks of him.

And he is _Glorious_.

* * *

I don't own Harry Potter or Rev 22 20

Thanks to:

nerdyninjaunicorn and blackriddle711 for requesting - I hope you both enjoyed!

sfox88 - I'm glad you liked it. I wasn't really sure if I'd made it that believable, so it's a relief to hear you say that!

Roxiblilly - aw, thanks! I know most Scorose has Rose as a shy bookworm and Scorpius as a total womaniser, so I just wanted to do something different!

Guest - oh, don't worry, it's fine! I'm still glad you reviewed and it's great you liked it. I wasn't sure if it was entirely what you wanted, but it's good to see you enjoyed anyway!

chocolatecheesecakes - me too! :P

seerblood2036 - thanks! Of course I'll write Marcus/Oliver.

blackriddle711 - thanks, I hope you liked it!

Ibbonray - yeah, I think music taste really says a lot about a person. Actually, the 'Smith' thing was unintentional, but thanks anyway!

special thanks to:

moondustandroses - for reviewing every chapter! Oh my gosh, I did not expect that! Everything you said was so kind (and a massive ego boost!) so thank you. Thinking about it, Touch is probably my favourite too :) Oh, and of course I'll write Lucius/Narcissa!


	39. Beginning - ScabiorOC

_Beginning_

_Scabior/OC_

_Warnings: suicide mention, depression_

_Music: Forever and Always, Taylor Swift_

* * *

_(in the beginning) _

She wants to save the world.

Too bad it isn't hers to save.

He meets her in his Fourth Year, the year of no-importance and smoking, of discovering-girls and heartbreak. Scabior's been told this, by many an older brother (he has four, to be exact) but personally, he hasn't experienced a single of these things yet.

Yet. He holds out hope.

She's a Ravenclaw, he notes, probably the only house Slytherin deigns to intermingle with. Pretty, too, but he tends to think most people are. In their own way. Everyone has that special something that makes them glow.

With her, it's all in the smile, that slightly-too-wide, twinkly, does-things-to-his-stomach smile.

Yeah, maybe he _has_ discovered girls.

Her name, he finds, from snippets of conversation and rumours and gossip, is Victoria. Like the Queen, or the sponge, or the Roman Goddess of Victory. She's a half-blood, they tell him, but Scabior doesn't listen, because he's one too and besides, does it really matter where she comes from?

It's not exactly popular opinion in the Slytherin common room, but still.

"That's bullshit." The first words he ever hears her say, in that deliciously lilted accent of hers. Not to him, though maybe just (by association) - to Nott, whose spew of anti-muggle hatred had clearly pissed her off. "You _know_ why we have the Statute of Secrecy."

"Yeah, because they can't deal with us," Scabior finds himself speaking up and maybe he's surprised, because usually he doesn't dip into topics like this one. And he's arguing with her, he's _arguing_, which is strange, because she has those brown, _brown_ eyes -

"Fuck you," she waves a hand dismissively, "it's because wizards are selfish. They don't give a shit about other races."

She has a point. A good point, actually, but he doesn't bite his tongue, because he's kind of a dick like that. "Why are we expected to, though?"

"Because we have fucking _magic_," she says and there's a fire in her eyes, so he backs down a little. Concedes to her, with the slightest nod of the head to show his opinion. "We should help other races where we can."

"Fuck off back to wherever you came from, Gates," Nott replies tiredly. It's rude and abrasive, but Scabior just laughs and agrees with him. "Nobody wants to hear your shitty opinion."

She gives a mock grin and a shrug - a non-verbal '_whatever_' - knowing when to quit. Which she does, to Scabior's disappointment. He kind of liked talking to her, even if it was brief and angry.

Brief and angry. If that doesn't describe her, he doesn't know what does.

They ask if he's signing up, for the Death Eaters. He's a Slytherin, after all, it's practically the house motto. _Something...something...random Latin...Voldemort_. His response is always the same, just a "_maybe_," because, well, _because_.

Scabior wouldn't die for You Know Who and that's why he refuses to fight - (for either side, he's not biased) as selfish as it sounds - his life is too precious. So many young, being killed. So much blood shed over fucking politics.

Besides, he's just a Fourth Year.

He's only _just_ discovered girls.

* * *

(_there was darkness_)

Scabior is fifteen - fifth year - and he doesn't want to die.

Every second of his life feels wasted. Like it's slipping through his fingers, like tomorrow he's going to wake up and find out he's forty years old, with an average-paying job, two kids and a wife who never listens.

That's if he makes it that long, because, who knows, he might be killed brutally in the war. What a cheerful little thought _that_ is.

He wants to do something worthwhile but he's scared. Gryffindor was never an option for him, after all. Bored, but boxed up. Terrific combination.

And his classes are useless - who gives a fuck about goblin rebellions? Who needs to know how to turn a rat into a fucking teapot? Everything's shit. Just shit. There's no other word for it.

He's depressed. He doesn't want to kill himself. He's depressed. He wants to live.

That's how the gambling thing starts up.

He's always been interested in business, which is a subtle way of saying he's absolutely obsessed with money. It's simple, really, he places the odds on things - Quidditch Matches, House Cups, which teacher's going to run screaming next (chances are, it's the Defence one) and they make their bet.

A galleon. Two galleons. The richer customers (Slytherins, mostly) even go up to ten.

Scabior's paying out, but he's making money too, a lot of money and he gets a real fucking _kick_ out of winning. Almost helps him feel something, almost being the operative word.

It's harmless. Just a harmless little betting ring for kids.

She places a bet.

Victoria Gates. He had almost forgotten about her, moved on to Lizzie Greengrass, Dorcas Meadowes and other childish crushes.

She's still pretty - ever so much - taller too, but still a few inches off him. She's still got that cat smile, slightly lopsided, very smirky.

"Hufflepuff." She puts down her galleon. Odds twenty-one to one. "If you will."

It's betrayal, he thinks, because the other team are Ravenclaw. She's supposed to support them, especially when they're so much better and stronger. Comparing the two would be like comparing Mullen (Tornadoes' chaser) and Nichols (Arrow's keeper) - one outstandingly good and the other miraculously awful.

"Why wouldn't I?" It's a terrible thing to blurt out, mainly because he never makes conversation with his customers and the whole topic could lead to some awkward confessions.

She raises an eyebrow. "Well, you know. House pride. Maybe you don't want my half-blood money."

"I do." He fidgets under the table, suddenly uncomfortable. "I mean, I'm a half-blood too."

"But not," she squints, trying to come up with an argument, "_half-blood_ half-blood. You're a Slytherin."

He stops his hands momentarily, confused. "So what?"

"Don't you all run around with your little pitchforks and 'death to muggles' agenda?" She shrugs. "I thought Slytherin half-bloods had internalised prejudice towards themselves."

Scabior is blinded by three separate thoughts, the first being 'pretty,' the second being 'smart' and the third - and most rational - being 'bullshit.' "That's just a stereotype. Not all Slytherins are Death Eaters."

"Enough of them are." She pushes her money towards him. "Just take it. I'm sick of arguing with you lot."

Victoria turns to walk away. He gets a brief glimpse of an eye roll, before he decides to do a stupid thing. "I don't _hate_ muggles."

She stops. Revolves. "What?"

"I get what you're saying. With the whole Slytherin thing. But," he sighs, running a hand through his hair, "I don't support the Dark Lord. I don't _hate_ him either, but I don't support him."

"So you're not going to fight against him?"

There's two choices. Lie. Tell the truth. He picks the latter, because he prefers the honest way of living. _Underhand_, but honest. "No."

"Maybe you should think about your choices."

And then she's gone.

* * *

(_and then god said_)

Hufflepuff wins. Because the world is good and light and seems to revolve in her favour. He loses a shitload of money, to those that betted on them (only three, including her) because the odds were so low.

"Twenty-one galleons." She sucks her lower lip impatiently, waiting for him to just hand it over. "Thanks."

There's this overwhelming sense of pride and confidence to her that he can't help but enjoy. She doesn't shrink away from anything. He rummages through the cash box for the money, handing it over to her when he finds it.

"Cool," she checks it, (of course) making sure that it's all there. Which it is, because he isn't a cheat. Most of the time. "Thanks again."

He moves his head to the left nervously. He's not sure why he's nervous. There's no real reason to be. "What are you going to do with it?"

"Charity."

It's so _her_ it makes him want to snort. "What charity?"

She cocks her head at him. "Muggle and Muggleborn Aid." She stares him down, waiting for a reaction.

"Sure." He refuses to give one to her. "That's great."

He's come to the conclusion that just agreeing with her works out fine. Perfectly, in fact. There's no way she'll hate him if he does any of that.

She doesn't. She smacks her shiny red lips and the word 'hypocrite' is written in her eyes, but she doesn't say it. "Yeah."

"Mmm," he says. They're caught in that awkward teenage-silence moment, struggling to make it out with short phrases and murmurs for a while, before he decides to let it go and leave.

He thinks about her though, he thinks about her, so he keeps running the betting ring. It helps. With taking his mind off of everything. Not just her. Everything.

Helps him stop. For a couple of minutes or two, at least. The world pauses and he's free for a while, of living. Of thinking. Of worrying. Of her.

The world is drowning him. They've barely even spoken and he's in love. She hates him. He hates life, he hates living, he hates her, he hates everything. It's not her fault. It was like that before. He thinks she could fix him, sometimes. He thinks that's bullshit, at others.

She doesn't like him. Nobody likes him. He's going to grow up. He's going to be worthless.

His grades drop. He eats. He stops eating. He cries at night, when the other Slytherin boys can't hear him.

Every once in a while, Scabior thinks about murder.

She's right. There's darkness in him. She didn't say it, but it was on her lips, poised to escape. Future _Death Eater_, he thinks. Not so bad, he thinks.

He's got a thousand and one emotions, he's realised and the problem is not that he doesn't feel, but that he feels far too much. A rush of everything and anything. Sadness, bitterness, anger and manic, manic happiness, all at once.

It's sad, he knows, but the world would be no better or worse if he were dead. In the grand scheme of things, he doesn't make a difference.

* * *

_(let there be light) _

"Let me take you out for coffee," he says, on a whim about a month later, because it's one of his Good Moods. And it's a friend thing. Definitely a friend thing. That's all they are. Friends. Absolutely. "I'll pay."

She looks confused. He isn't surprised; they haven't spoken since the Bet. Of course she's confused. He's not supposed to like her, he's not supposed to like anyone.

"Why?"

It's a weird question.

It's a weird answer.

* * *

I OWN...NOTHING

Thanks to:

Guest - oh, you're very welcome! that one was one of my favourites to write!

moondustandroses - thank you again! It's coming very soon, I just need to finish Marcus/Oliver first!

blackriddle711 - thank you! I'm so glad you enjoyed, I loved writing it! Bellatrix has to be one of my favourite characters (even if I do prefer Andromeda slightly!)

Guest - she's definitely insane. It's not just the love, it's the worship that drives people crazy. Thank you!

Karbear10 - ahh, this was _definitely_ not soon! I hope you enjoyed anyway though lol.

Pula Nuvem - for requesting this, I know it took a while (I'm SO sorry) but I hope you like it anyway?


	40. Ashes, Ashes, Ashes - MarcusOliver

Ashes, Ashes, Ashes

Marcus Flint/Oliver Wood

Music: Run Run Run, The Velvet Underground

Warnings: sorta (?) AU, non-linear, violence

* * *

When you're six, you sell your soul to the devil.

For a broomstick and some polisher. Both of which you get, because you're a Flint and Flints get what they want. You smile and nod. Don't say thank you. They never teach you how to.

You've learned just the right tantrums to manipulate your parents. All the right games to play. Honestly, you don't need a soul when you're a privileged little Pureblood boy, but nobody ever tells you that. Nobody dares.

It was only a whisper. Stolen away and never returned.

When you're six, your life begins.

* * *

Your fingernails are yellow and your tongue tastes like ash, but you light up your cigarette and smile. Dreadful habit you've picked up there, haven't you? During the war, you think that one started, but it's all a little hazy. A little bit twisted. A little bit fucked up. Smoking calms it down. It's not a roar nowadays. It's more of a gentle wave, with the occasional crash and bash into the rocks.

"Thanks for coming," Oliver says quietly, as the coffin is lowered into the ground. "It means a lot."

His mother. You didn't know her. Only the picture, her smiling, laughing, hugging her son with the kind of affection you so often craved. Still do, from time to time, but the tiny little _pang_ goes away after a while. Everything goes away.

And war is a disease. It chokes and it kills and it _burns_.

* * *

You try ever so hard to crush Oliver Wood's hand. It's a ritual the last captain taught you, a power play, strength battle that ends in no defeat or victory. Just the grim satisfaction of seeing the other one wince. He's a fourth year and you're a fifth. It's his first year of captainship, but his eyes are made of steel and his hands barely tremble.

He's still eager keen. Bright smile, twinkly eyes. All the girls swoon, or so you've heard. He flicks his hair back and grins in a display of typical Gryffindor arrogance. 'We'll win,' he mouthes to his team smugly. "Don't worry." You shake your head. Roll your eyes. They're always the same.

It's a delight when he loses.

You don't fly, you glide and he's all over the place. Dodging. Missing. Hoop after hoop after hoop.

Your seeker catches the snitch. The silver-green cheer erupts and that's why _little boys_ should never run with wolves. Your second win and his first lose. It has a marvellous pleasure to it. Victory. You'll make your father proud, you'll make them all proud, Marcus Flint

You're a warrior.

* * *

You're not a Death Eater (you're not, you're not, you swear by it) but you go to war anyway. Not for Potter. Slytherin boys don't fight like that. Well, they shouldn't, anyway.

It's a spell here and a spell there, a block, a twist, a dodge. It's a bit like Quidditch, really, but with wands and deadly consequences. You don't aim to kill. No, you stun, adults if you can, because there's still that little voice in the edge of your brain telling you _they're only children_. But you're barely an adult, only twenty-two and you don't want to die, you don't, you don't -

You run and you hide and you wait. Fighting isn't much fun anymore. The Dark Lord is losing, numbers are thinning out. It's only a matter of time. You've never been bright, Marcus, but even you can tell a lost cause when you see one. You don't care for the dead. You care for yourself. You're only twenty-two.

You don't aim to kill.

Your opponent does.

* * *

He's a businessman, your father.

Shrewd. Calculating. Ambitious. Being at the top of the wizard food chain helps too, of course. He's not a Death Eater, but he's always been rather into supremacy. Must've been where you got it from. The whole 'dirty mudblood' outlook and everything. You're not a _nice_ boy. He's not a _nice_ man. It's why he's so successful.

He doesn't love your mother - if those strings of affairs are anything to go by - and he doesn't love you. He doesn't love you, but he pushes (shoves would be more accurate) and pushes you until you bleed. You aren't smart. You aren't ambitious. You aren't cunning. You aren't anything, really.

You're a Flint. And Flints get what they want, when they want.

When you fail your NEWTS, he dishes out galleons (an impressive amount) to the school board and you try again. Another year. A retake. Father's money. "You'll be a businessman," he says, lighting a cigarette carelessly, "even if it kills the both of us."

* * *

_A Flint_.

You straighten up and smile. Even items of clothing know your name. Your mother told you this would happen. Your father told you that you'd better be Slytherin. It's not like there's anywhere else to go.

_Not Gryffindor_, it whispers. You've never known courage, not truly, just when not to flinch, when not to tremble. They raised you on masked deceit and defeat, not bravery. Not when you strip it all away.

_Nor Ravenclaw_.

Well, just look at you. You aren't exactly the _smartest_ in the pack. Not witty, or bright, or all things nice.

_Hufflepuff or Slytherin? _

You envision - only briefly - a version of yourself that could end up in Hufflepuff. Hardworking. Loyal. Friendly. It's an unnatural sight to behold. Hufflepuff. Fair, honest, just; you aren't any of those things. You're a Flint - how could you be? How could you be, when nobody ever taught you?

_Slytherin_, you say, and so the hat echoes.

* * *

You wake up in a hospital bed.

The world is grey streaks. Blurry lines. Shining, shimmering horizons that stretch for miles in a cramped little room. It's neither dark nor light, but you are alone and so you are afraid. There's a constant aching in your leg, one that seems to itch and scratch and tear (you want to bite it off, you think, but the thought disappears quite quickly) at your muscles. If you could move your hands, you would touch it.

If.

If.

There are dots in your vision and stripes of dust in your mouth. The little 'lick lick' of your tongue seems to do it no good, but you carry on anyway. For a few seconds, at least, before there is a bang in your skull and the lights go out.

You don't remember who you are and the world is black once again.

* * *

When you're six, you fly for the first time.

The broom is enchanted to be as safe as possible, (and your mother is watching worriedly nearby) but it feels dangerous nonetheless. Wind whipping through your hair, limbs dangling over the side - this, _this_, you imagine, must be how the professionals do it. It barely hovers, but you're flying (finally, finally - _flying_!) and one day, you swear, one day, you'll play it how adults play it. For now, it's a start.

You beam down at your mother - who looks quite bemused by the whole thing - wave, grin, nod. She looks reassured, but you don't care about her. Not when you're soaring like this.

It's exhilarating and oh-so-exciting and you want to do it again and again and _again_.

* * *

Your Healer tells you about Quidditch.

She shows you a broom. She shows you flying. "Your mother," she beams, "said you were quite the natural. Is that true?"

Well, how the fuck would _you_ know?

But the pictures are pretty and the skill looks fun. Being up in the air, when you're caught in a lowly bed, stuck there for what seems like eternity. You vow to try it, when you have healed, when you're not broken. Flying. It looks exciting. It looks like freedom and god knows you could use a bit of that. Your mother buys you the books, to read, (of course, they are just for practice, as reading is something you have yet to re-master) to gape at the moving images.

In all your two weeks (that you can remember, of course, there's twenty-something years before that) you've never wanted anything quite so badly.

"Of course," your Healer says, sickly-sweet smile still plastered to her face, "it would be a miracle if you could ever fly again. Still fun to watch, I suppose."

* * *

"It's a car," he says cheerily, fiddling with some odd dials and grinning. You wish he wouldn't do that. Grin. It makes the world seem better than it is. "Good old muggle contraption."

Car. Car. The word is foreign and you don't recall, or perhaps you do, you aren't quite sure, because the memories, the _memories_ -

"You didn't know it, before." Oliver is quiet now, having seen your face. "I don't think, anyway."

A grim silence takes over the atmosphere. Not that you were Mr. Chatty while sitting there and sulking, your face ashen, mouth taut. It's odd, pretending to be friends. He does it out of sympathy, you because you have nobody else.

"Fuck...off." You struggle with the words a bit, but they come and he smiles once more.

* * *

The first time you get drunk - really, really drunk, not a passing sip of wine (you're legal now, after all, seventeen) - you think of him. Only briefly, of course, because there are so many thoughts whirling round your brain that Oliver Wood does not deserve to subdue them. It's not a bad thought, or a dark thought, or even a dirty one. In fact, you forget it in the morning.

It's odd, because you've never spent much time at all dwelling on Oliver. He's like a fly. An annoying little fly that only ever crosses your mind when it surfaces. Unless of course, one has a fear of flies, but then again, nobody in their right mind would have a fear of Oliver Wood. It would be like having a fear of...Hufflepuffs, or something.

But you do. For a fleeting moment, his name crosses your mind.

_Oliver Wood_, you think blindly, wildly to yourself, _would be attractive if he wasn't such a douchebag._

* * *

You fall into bed beside him. It isn't weird anymore, it hasn't been for a long time. He is warm and he is safe. It's just a sleeping ritual - he does little more than kiss your forehead (and maybe your lips too, if he isn't tired) but it is protection, from the dark, from the monsters under the bed. Neither of you could go further. Not now.

You're still healing (mentally and physically, it's been ten months, but you're not quite fine, not yet) and he isn't about that sort of stuff. That's okay. You like the affection. You like being loved.

Boyfriend. That's what you suppose you'd call him. Boyfriend. It's cute. Too cute for the likes of you. It's strange, but you like the way it feels, the little thrill of it in your mind. Boyfriend. Boyfriend. _Boyfriend_.

The war broke a lot of things, but sometimes, you can build them back together again.

* * *

She enters the room with that (fucking ugly) smile on her face, ready to plump your pillows and give you (fucking useless) words of encouragement. Your Healer. Lucy - no, no, that isn't it and fuck, shit, _fuck_, she told you this yesterday, why can't you remember? Lucy. Lily. It doesn't fucking matter, nothing fucking matters anymore.

She's happy. Probably because she isn't stuck in a hospital bed like some poor bastard you know. Trying to piece things together. Your name is Marcus Flint. Your name is Marcus Flint. Your name is Marcus -

Fuck. It was there and now it isn't. It slipped in and out and back again. Marcus. Marcus Something. Marcus Anything. Flint. Flint! There it is again, running back towards you. Flint, Flint, Flint. You won't forget it this time, you swear.

(you will, you will, you will)

Your name is Marcus Flint and you wish you had died.

* * *

After Hogwarts, you buy an apartment. It's pointless, really, because as soon as your parents pass, their house is yours, but what nineteen year old deserves to suffer through '_keep it down Marcus_,' and '_don't stay out too late_?' The place is a reasonable little thing. Well-furnished. Affordable, if you have Pureblood parents to back you up on it. Big enough for the one.

You don't get a job. You don't see why you ought to, because Quidditch season is over and you have a decent amount of money. That's what you'll do, when you can. Quidditch. Not for a living - you don't need to earn one - but for the entertainment. You're good enough, you're rich enough, why not?

You're young. You're wealthy. You're a Pureblood. Your life is on track. The world is a good place, a brilliant place, the type of place that'll reward moody assholes like you. Here's to the future and here's to living, because it doesn't get better than this.

No. Seriously. It doesn't.

* * *

"We're moving you in with someone who can care for you," your Healer (Luanne, Luanne, before it goes) says, smile wide. They're kicking you out. That's what it translates to. "They started a program, after the war, for the injured. Some people volunteered to take you guys into their homes."

It's a collective _you_, the injured. The sick. The dying. Non-humans, broken jigsaw pieces. Can't be mended.

"He's famous." There's a tinge of red on her cheeks. You roll your eyes. Probably the only part of you that doesn't still tick, tick, tick. "You might know him."

She's clearly forgotten that you don't know _anything_. It would be a hard job recalling your family, sometimes, if it weren't for the visits your mother brings. You wonder why you can't stay with her, but it's likely she doesn't want to catch anything. This man could be the Minister for Magic (fuck, fuck, you _know_ this - ) and you wouldn't know who he is.

"His name's Oliver Wood."

Nope. Nothing at all.

* * *

While you are Dead, (or supposed to be, for there is blackness, but nothing more) you imagine your funeral.

Black headstone, red flowers. Family gathered around, only family, because your 'friends' are few and far between. _Marcus Flint, Loved Even In Death_. It's a factual innacuracy, of course, because you were loved by nobody except perhaps your mother and even that's a stretch. They sob and reminisce and forget about you, slowly, in favour of the lasagne your mother made to commemorate the occasion, in favour of the oh-so-pretty flowers Aunt Matilda bought.

A eulogy on your spirit. A piece on the war. In the coffin and over. They shake hands, (solemnly, like all adults do) pretend to care. Say their goodbyes and wish your parents (who are already caught up in the 'moving on' process) well. Go back home and live their lives.

They don't remember you after that.

* * *

Apparently (according to Harry Potter, at least) the Dark Lord has risen. You don't quite believe it, but you don't quite doubt it either, it's this totally unbelievable, totally out there thing that could still maybe-possibly happen. Those statements contradict, you know, but so do a lot of things. But - well -

You don't know. Would it be good? Would it be bad? Would your whole world be turned upside down?

You don't..._hate_ Mudbloods. As in, you don't want to see the whole race exterminated. But you don't approve of them either. Hogwarts, society, school...it should be for Wizards. Not muggles. You just want them kicked out. You don't want streets littered with bodies, you don't want babies murdered in their sleep. Privilege, not supremacy.

Is there a difference?

You're not biased. You're not, you tell people, you're not. You're not biased, your world view's just totally fucked. Being a Pureblood doesn't make you special, Marcus Flint. It won't protect you, in the end.

* * *

"Do you remember me?"

He settles you into a chair. He has to do it himself. You don't struggle, just let him.

The question is difficult. Long to process. It has to be repeated in your head a few times before you get the trick of it. The key, you've found, is to pronounce the words slowly in your mind. Work them out one by one, then answer.

It's just a short, stiff shake. A no. The first word is always the hardest to force out, so you don't even bother. There was an instance in the - in the -

What's that word again?

There was a instance _before_ where there was a short flash. Almost like a dream, a sort of deja vu. Not quite a memory, more like a fragment of it. About him, you think it was, about him. They're coming and going now, you remember your name (Marcus Flint) and your family (your father's a businessman) and bits and pieces of Hogwarts.

The war is still buried deep inside, you had to hear about it from your Healer.

You hope it never surfaces.

* * *

They laugh when you retake your NEWTS, they shove around and call you stupid. You concede, because it's true, chuckle along with them, make the '_Hogwarts is so bulllshit'_ comment all Slytherins seem to love. Another year. Another fucking year, for nothing. The difference between them and you is that they hate Dumbledore, they hate Gryffindors, they hate the incessant amount of Mudbloods. Of course, you hate all of those things too, but mostly, you just hate _school_.

Every time you get called on in class. Every time you get an answer wrong. Every time you turn in an essay and get a D for _Dreadful_. You're not smart, no matter how hard you work, so you don't see why you should even try. Not when they're going to laugh at you. Not when they make fun of you for not knowing the properties of mandrake root or some other fucking useless trivia.

You're a Flint. You shouldn't need to be intelligent, but you do and it hurts that you're not. Just a little. Not much. A tiny jab at the ribs, a bit of an ache.

You play Quidditch and it goes away.

* * *

They bring you a lot of things in the hospital, but the worst is a mirror.

You're a monster, Marcus Flint. There are burns and scratches and scars. Your face is a war ground, a marking of loss, a history book of angry etchings. You're ugly, ugly, _ugly_. No, not ugly, not ugly - _grotesque_. That's the word. Is it any wonder they cower away? Is it any wonder nearly nobody visits?

Your eyes are sunken, your gums are swollen, almost-white. Your face is on fire. And you wish - you wish they wouldn't look. That they would leave. They wouldn't pay attention to you. You're a remnant of the war, not your own person. You're a shell, a trace of an explosion.

You map the scars with your finger and think about suicide.

* * *

It's in the papers, of course. Nearly front page news, almost an achievement. _Wood and his new toy-__**boy**_, _who knew_? They don't mention you by name, probably because they don't know it. You're not dating. You haven't even kissed. It's been five months since you moved in, five solid months of -

_Something_.

You talk, you laugh, you're getting better. Gradually. Oliver is helping. But you wish he would -

Well, you don't know. You still don't recall much of him from before, just flashes of his smile, just echoes of snippets of words. Other things are coming back now, too, like Harry Potter, like the girl you dated in fifth year. Sometimes, you want the memories of him back.

You like him. Or maybe you don't. It's all so very confusing.

* * *

"Drink up," they say, "it'll help things Come Back."

It isn't the first potion they've given you, they've tried spells and alchemy and herbal remedies and everything under the sun. It's been a month. You're not almost-dead anymore. You can't get up, you can't move (much) but there isn't the sense of agony you felt before. They're moving you, in a week. To the celebrity, the one with the short name you still don't recall.

_O_, you think, _it starts with O_.

They tell you to be optimistic about the treatment, but you're sure you'll stay hazy-grey forever. Better is just a word and when you lose things, sometimes they just don't Come Back, not at all. They disappear into the abyss, slip away and win the game of hide-and-seek.

The liquid is green, a sort of pea-colour, thick and slimy. Disgusting and pointless and you take the first sip, because now is not one of those times.

* * *

You're fairly certain everyone regrets first kisses. Not the _very_ first kiss - yours was stolen by a Slytherin girl in fifth year (the one you dated but can't quite place a face to) - but the first kiss between two people, the first time a different set of lips touch. It's brief, it's awkward, it's sloppy. You tangle your hands in your hair, then pull away when you realise how ridiculous it must seem. How ridiculous _you_ must seem.

He doesn't taste like chocolate, or vanilla, or strawberries. His mouth is sweaty and it reminds you of Quidditch, somewhat, a long weary match that seems to have no conclusion.

When you pull away (it's been five seconds, just about) your face is red and your hands are clammy and things are _weird_. You look at him. He looks back. You look away. It's a kiss, just a kiss, nothing more.

But he doesn't drop your hand.

* * *

There's a definite smirk, when Gryffindor wins.

It's because of Harry Potter, (the boy-who-lived, the half-blood, the slayer of dark lords) it's because of Potter and Potter alone. The last seeker - Grey - had been useless, dithering about, hovering where she wasn't supposed to hover, but, you suppose, never expect much from a mudblood. Youngest seeker in a century and suddenly, it's Slytherin's loss.

And there's Wood, on the other side of the pitch, shaking hands and staring. Smirking, definitely smirking. Looking you right in the eye and it's almost an act of defiance. Your blood boils and he's not supposed to do that, he's not. Win. Smirk. Make you angry.

They're on for the cup. They're on for the cup and you won't let it happen. You'll wipe that fucking _smile_ off his face if it kills you.

* * *

Your mother visits you in the hospital, a day or two after you Wake Up.

You wonder briefly where your father is and maybe if he is dead, if he died in the same catastrophe you almost did. The one they still haven't told you about. She rebukes this angrily and informs you (face blank, apart from the mouth, the mouth is twisted) that he is at home. Working. Clearly, his work is far more important than a nearly-dead son.

There is a stony silence and you think your mother might be here out of some kind of duty.

Then she hugs you ("_ouch_," you say, "_that hurts_," but she ignores it) and hugs you and sobs salty tears onto your skin. Tells you it should have never happened, even if you aren't quite sure what 'it' is.

It's strange, because you don't know her first name, or her favourite colour, or if she raised you right, but you know you have a mother and you know that she loves you.

* * *

Kisses, you have learned, really don't mean a thing.

He kisses you a second time and a third. Spread out, of course, sporadically, spontaneously. It's almost as if he can't help it. You don't talk about them. You talk about the regular. Treatment. Quidditch. Memories. Sometimes you think you've dreamt them up. It's possible, nearly anything is.

But he kisses you and you kiss back and then things are normal again. It's a secret, it's a puzzle, neither of you can work it out. Maybe it's a friendly thing. It's never anything more than a quick peck, it doesn't last long, it doesn't _stand out. _

They're something special, something all to yourselves. It's strange, it's nice, it's everything in between. You can't figure it out and maybe you don't want to.

* * *

Your Healer tells you about magic.

They show you a wand and a spell and expect you to understand. You're only just grasping how to speak. It's another thing to learn, another thing to add to the list. Potions and charms and it's _difficult_. An education in a day. They let you try, but your movements are jerky and solid. You produce fiery sparks and little else. The names of the spells are hard to pronounce, to enunciate.

_Reparo_, you whisper, but it doesn't work. _Reparo, reparo, reparo_.

If magic exists, if the world is wonderful and fantastical and people can do what they like, why are you stuck in a bed, waiting for recovery? Why has everything fallen apart? If magic exists, why are there some days when you can't even remember your name?

* * *

"I'm sorry that this happened to you." It's two am and you're in your room when he barges in. Last week, you moved in and it's been awkward silences and frustrated nods since then. "I'm sorry that you're like this."

Everybody's sorry, everybody's _apologetic_, but when it comes to doing something, nobody cares. He's just like the rest, just like them, the ones who Survived the war, who didn't lose anything in the fire. He doesn't see what it means. He doesn't feel the way you feel.

"You hated me," he confesses, "we were Quidditch rivals."

A breath, a pause, a silence.

"You weren't a nice person." It's not a surprise. You've known, all this time. You fought on _that_ side, after all. You don't remember much of yourself, but you know your mind, you know your thoughts. So you were bitter and cruel before and you're the same now. People don't change. "But this shouldn't have happened."

Words don't mean anything. They don't change actions, they don't change lives.

"I'm sorry this happened to you."

* * *

It's a slow, sick day when you learn about the war.

They decide that you must. It's a necessity. Finding out what put you there, in that bed, finding out what tore you apart. You've always wondered and wondered and wondered, but they hide things from you. Like you're a little boy. Too small to understand, too stupid to comprehend.

Muggleborns. Half-bloods. Purebloods. People drew sticks in sand and created the divide. Voldemort. Death Eaters. They are harsh words, they taste like acid in your mouth, but you struggle along and repeat them. War. War. _War_. You fought for bad, your Healer tells you, but they have moved past that, they have accepted you. Everybody deserves treatment.

Thousands injured and dead, families wrecked apart.

You think to yourself, _did I ever commit a crime_?

There's this putrid burning in your stomach that murmurs things about murder and war and _you could have killed someone_. You could have, you could have, you could have -

(SHUT UP, SHUT UP, SHUT UP)

They don't talk about the war again.

* * *

Around three months in, the nightmares start.

It's always flesh and blood, a crimson covered canvas and a smile. His smile. A flash of light, a bang, a fade to dark. You are dead (yet again) but not for long, no, not for you, for you are risen and you are angry and you slash and bash and _murder._

And you wake up screaming.

Cold sweat, stained sheets. They look red in the moonlight, a little too '_out damned spot_' except you're a Pureblood and you've never read Hamlet and you wouldn't remember if you had. Hands in the dark clutch at your body, they claw and grimace, disappear into shadows. You're twenty three years old, but you're scared. You're scared of the dark. You're scared of the war. You're scared of monsters.

You crawl into his bed, because it's the only place you can think to turn.

* * *

Your mother visits the two of you.

She brings cookies and talks about your progress. How Oliver is 'a nice boy,' helping you and all. You think she's worked it out, you think she's read the papers, but she doesn't say anything much about it.

It's a marvel she doesn't ask, because it's dreadfully complicated to explain.

The papers think (well, they don't outright state it, but they imply) that he's taking advantage. Or - the more common belief - that you are simply after his money. They forget, you seem that you're a Flint and Flints are never poor. Not even now, not even after the war. You could have moved out months ago, but you stayed, because you liked the company.

And the kisses. And the curling up by the fireplace. You like being with him.

* * *

Things are Coming Back.

It's been a year and the roar is almost gone. You can still taste the ash, sometimes, on your tongue, you can still feel flames on the side of your face. You're a remnant of the war, a living memory. It took a lot, but it never took you.

You're Marcus Flint. You're not broken.

Nobody is, nobody is a part of a whole, everybody is Somebody and a human being. Nobody needs to be fixed, nobody needs an Oliver to put them back together again. You used to think he was your saviour and now you've realised that you're equals. Love isn't imbalanced, love is equality and now you finally have that. Equality. Love. Maybe even - you don't dare to think - happiness.

You are not broken. The pieces are. They're blurry, hazy-grey and a little bit out of order. But you are putting them back together.

* * *

I don't own anything

So...what do you guys think? Reviews/requests are welcome!

Thanks to:

**seerblood2036** \- for the request, I hope you enjoyed!

**karbear10** \- oh, thank you! I'm glad you liked it!

**moondustandroses** \- yeah, I liked writing him! Lucius/Narcissa will be up next!

**Nahis** \- thank you! I'm still accepting requests and I'll do the both of them if you want!

**Rachel** \- well, it's open to interpretation, but that's what I was thinking!


	41. Azure - LuciusNarcissa

Azure

Narcissa/Lucius

Music - Anything Could Happen, Ellie Goulding

Warning - this is incredibly long. Also for violence.

/

_(after the war / we said we'd fight together)_

/

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

There's a grandfather clock in her room and it makes the most dreadful noise. Always a tick and never a tock.

She can't go one damn second without hearing it. She wants to shove the stupid thing against the wall and break it. But she doesn't.

This is how things work in the Black household: Bellatrix rolls in mud and messes up her hair; (she wants to be a boy, Narcissa thinks disdainfully) Andromeda talks back and disrespects her mother and so Narcissa is left to pick up the pieces. It's easier, she thinks, to be the rebel, than to be the Good Girl. The receiver of the pandering head-pat, the nodder, the yes-mother person - this is the role she's stuck with, but she doesn't complain.

Hogwarts, Narcissa has been told, changes people. Andromeda is going next year. Bellatrix is in her second year - lucky thing! - and she has years and years to go, almost an eternity. Very-nearly four, but not quite. She's counting down the hours on her hands.

Her time is a perpetual summer, sitting in her room, playing in the garden, learning this and that from mother. Andromeda keeps her company, but it's always most fun when Bellatrix visits. She can hear her now, over the sound of the grandfather clock, moving about in her room at alarming pace. It'll be seconds before their mother arrives and chides her. "Narcissa," her mother often says, "is the only one who will ever end up with a husband,' and she preens now at the thought of this compliment.

Her sisters aren't ladylike. They tear their skirts and tights and come in with leaves in their hair.

They don't curtsey, they don't like wearing dresses. They eat too loud and make mess. But she loves them, she supposes, like she loves mother, and father too and Sirius and everyone and everything. Except mudbloods, of course, because that would make of her One Of Those Rotten Blood-Traitors her father grumbles about and she certainly wouldn't want to displease him. She's not quite sure what they are yet, only that they're 'bad and dirty.' Narcissa wonders if she'll ever meet one. She hopes not.

She's only seven (and a bit, she often adds) but she feels a certain responsibility over her siblings. They aren't Sensible, not like her. They won't make it far with holes in their stockings and sticky hair. They won't ever find boyfriends like that. Not that Narcissa has a particularly strong desire for one yet - it would be nice, she thinks wistfully, but she's only seven, (and a bit) far too young to have one. Narcissa likes the idea of love. Just the idea of it: holding hands, kissing, (it isn't as yucky as it seems, apparently) getting married, having babies of her own.

They play with the Lestrange boys, sometimes, and they play weddings. It's always Bellatrix though, never Narcissa and Andy isn't really bothered by it. But recently - recently, she's been away, away at Hogwarts and maybe next time (after September, when she goes away again) it will Narcissa's turn to be the bride. It won't be like the real thing though, no, when they play with the Lestrange boys, it's always hand picked daisies and made up words, not proper weddings.

When she gets married - for real - it'll be diamond rings and flowing white dresses. Red lipstick, like mother wears sometimes, when she's in a particularly good mood. They'll dance the dance and hum the march and kiss like fireworks and things will be _beautiful. _

/

Bellatrix and Andromeda return from Hogwarts, with mouths full of secrets and stories to tell.

"Let them have their moment," her mother says and so Narcissa stays quiet, unusually so, while they babble and chatter about Charms and such. Sips her soup and locks up her tongue. It'll be Christmas soon, in almost a week and she's a Good-Girl, - no, really - she can behave, just for the night. They talk with stars in their eyes and father complains about Mudbloods. Mother drinks too much wine and Narcissa doesn't say anything at all.

She supposes it is because she is young. Yes, that's it - just because she's seven (and a bit) - that and only that, her age and nothing more. When she leaves for Hogwarts and starts her first year, she'll come back with the wildest fictions and they'll listen raptly, mouths wide, eyes enamoured. Perhaps Narcissa will have her moment after all, because it seems as though time is simply reserved for Bellatrix and Andromeda and nobody more.

Aunt Walburga visits for Christmas and brings along the Pack to stay with them. Three year old Sirius, tiny baby Regulus, even the frustrated husband to make a set complete. It isn't quite right, because the house is overcrowded: enough rooms, but far, far too many people, people that swallow Narcissa whole. Her uncle smokes, her aunt whinges. Sirius whines, Regulus cries. The house echoes with noise.

It's a conundrum, you see, because Narcissa doesn't like noise, but she doesn't like silence either, she wants affection, but not attention, she hates crowds but the place feels empty when she's alone. And - and, well - she wants them to LISTEN, but she doesn't want to speak up, she doesn't want to embarrass herself.

She doesn't like it when they stare, but she hates it when they look away.

"Why are you so timid, Narcissa?" Aunt Walburga snaps, pulling up an armchair and lodging herself onto it. "You ought to make more conversation." Of course, an abundance of Hufflepuff jokes ensue, each one drifting off into a subtle (or not so, from certain people) warning.

It's an old joke, Narcissa knows the rule: Slytherin or home-again and most certainly not a Hufflepuff. She won't be, she swears to them, but they don't look much impressed.

"Leave her alone," her father sighs, ruffling the pages of his newspaper, "obedience is a perfectly fine quality in a young girl."

"And in a wife," her aunt adds, but she doesn't appear to have changed her tune, "but not in a Black."

It's the same, always the same. Blacks are bold, bright and beautiful. They shine and burn. Refuse to fade out. Narcissa isn't a star, she's more of a flower: delicate and dainty, petals closely guarded and so dreadfully fragile. Toujours pur, forever and always.

They hang tinsel on Christmas Eve; green and silver, balanced beautifully from the banisters, wonderfully symmetrical and in place. The house looks remarkably pretty, though it's a shame the house elves did most of the work. Not mother, no mother wouldn't dream of it. Housework is so awfully passé, don't you know? Narcissa curls up by the fire and sleeps there for the night. She doesn't like the ticking from the clock in her room.

/

The summer the following year drips like wax. Long, hot and listless.

Narcissa plays by the pond in the garden, shrieking whenever she finds a frog or a worm. Honestly, she's bored. The days pass by slowly and uneasily, each leaving no lasting impression. She's almost feverish; stuck in sticky heat, time floating idly by around her. The absence of activity is making her ill, genuinely, truly _sick_.

A new family moves to town. The father's name is Abraxas, the mother's Drusilla and Narcissa's own parents practically faint at their feet. "_The Malfoys_," she is told, by her father, "_are an esteemed Pureblood family, almost as revered as the Blacks_." The talk lasts for several minutes and is of only the highest praise. Most of which seems to revolve around the words 'pureblood' and 'money' - but Narcissa doesn't mind. She likes those things, or so she's been told.

Narcissa wonders if that's why her mother drools over Abraxas, or if there is perhaps another reason, but she doesn't think too much of it

Their boy - Lucius - is a year older than her, with all the airs and graces of a well-established nine year old. She's only just turned eight herself, but he seems to use it as an excuse to act as if he is smarter. They talk together while their parents become acquainted.

He's clever, she thinks, but not as much as he tries to appear.

"I'm leaving for Hogwarts in two years," he tells her, because Hogwarts is the only thing anyone under the age of eleven seems to talk about, "I'm marvellously excited, aren't you?"

"I suppose," she answers, but she's looking forward to it more than anything. Hogwarts. Hogwarts. Hogwarts. The word even sounds fun, like bubbles on her tongue.. She doesn't want to seem overeager, though, not in front of a new friend. She glances over to her mother, who seems to have caught a case of the giggles. "Do you want to be a Slytherin?"

Lucius blinks. "What other house would I be?" He rolls his eyes. "Father says if I'm a Hufflepuff, I'm disowned. Same for Gryffindor."

"That's terrible!"

But not different, really, the implications been there for her as well - just never said directly to her. The House of Noble Black - the House of Slytherin. It's a link, it's a requirement. She can't think of anyone - anyone - in her immediate family who hasn't followed it. Slytherin. Black. The words go together.

He shrugs it off, mouth quirking. "It was just a joke."

"Ravenclaw wouldn't be so bad, I think," she says aloud. It's something she's been pondering for a while. Narcissa is smart for her age - quick on her feet, lightning on her tongue (if she finds the time to use it) - not so much as Andromeda, but still quite intelligent. The latter had turned down Ravenclaw for Slytherin, - as she had confessed over the Christmas Holidays - a true, darling testament to her family. Proof of loyalty. "Not as bad as Hufflepuff or Gryffindor."

He pauses, mulling over her words, as if it is a new concept to him: an option other than Slytherin. "Full of Mudbloods though," he concedes, voice dripping with loathing. "At least Slytherin only takes the pure."

Of course. She had almost forgotten the perils of being a Pureblood. Mudbloods everywhere. Dirty, rotten thieves and she still has yet to meet one. It's not something one wishes for, but she'll have to face them at Hogwarts, according to Bellatrix. Narcissa curls up her nose at him, disgust evident. "Slytherin, then," she decides, putting Ravenclaw out of the question. "I wouldn't want to be around filth."

/

On her eleventh birthday, she blows out candles and wishes for Hogwarts. She's got the magics, of course - she has done since she was seven (and a bit): a puff of purple smoke had informed her family of that - and she has a handwritten letter to prove she's going. It had come the week before, pleasantly delivered by the family owl. But there's still a lingering sense of doubt, that she's not really going. That she's a fake. And what if - oh, what if - she gets there and she's sorted into Hufflepuff? What about the Mudbloods? What about, what about -

Narcissa's always been a worrier, but there's almost two months until she goes and she can't afford to waste any time.

Not when she's finally going. To Hogwarts!_ Hogwarts_!

They go to Diagon Alley. Make a spectacular scene, people practically bow at their feet. Only the most pleasant robes, the finest cauldrons, for a Black. She likes being recognised for her name. She wonders if it will happen when she gets to Hogwarts, but of course it will. It happens everywhere - they're practically famous. They don't walk along the pavement, they _glide_ and everyone who knows anything stops and stares.

"Watch out," Bellatrix whispers in her ear, little louder than a hiss, "there are Mudbloods everywhere here."

She looks around, but she can't seem to pick them out. Narcissa's seen them before, in the streets - she hadn't been aware, until mother had pointed to them. They disguise themselves as real wizards. Slip into the crowds. They're not scary, she's realised, just - just - not pure. Unworthy, of magic, of Hogwarts. They taint the system, yes, that's right, that's what the family say.

Narcissa can abide by half-bloods. Mother even has a few acquaintances she keeps around - "_for charity's sake, darlings_," she tells her daughters after a particularly strong drink. Hogwarts is ridden with them, she's heard. It'll be the first time she's away from her family. Mother. Father.

Both of them at once, nobody there to protect her. She's looking forward to it. The month takes time. Every second, every minute, every hour, she waits - patiently, of course, with nothing much to do other than smile, sit and play with her dolls. She reads Hogwarts, A History in the time it takes, she struggles through each page but makes it to the end.

Hogwarts. She's finally going.

Her mother doesn't say "I'll miss you," when she packs her off to the train. She doesn't say "I love you," either. Father's busy working. Narcissa runs along the platform with her luggage, an almost-spring in her step. Doesn't look back. Hops onto the train and doesn't think twice about saying goodbye.

/

It's a hatstall.

She begs and begs for Slytherin, but the Hat pleads with her to consider other options. It tells her that she's loyal. That she belongs in Hufflepuff - _no, or maybe Ravenclaw_! - perhaps, even Gryffindor. They were right, oh god, they were right, she doesn't belong. There's a sick, empty feeling in her stomach. Narcissa isn't a true Black, not really. She's always been the Black Sheep. The Good Girl. The odd-one-out. This is just proof of that, just proof -

The Sorting Hat deliberates.

Her breath hitches. "Please," she thinks, so loud it's nearly-deafening, "please, please, Slytherin."

A pause, one of no thought, no speech, just a deafening _tick-tick-tick_ in her head. They're staring now. She wonders how long it's been - shorter than the person before her (ten minutes to decide on - of all houses - Hufflepuff) - but still not over quickly.

She looks over at her sisters. Their faces make it obvious.

"Surprising." The Hat lets out something akin to a sigh, but not quite so human. "Though, I suppose, you are a Black."

Narcissa's hands are sweating now and she repeats the sentiment from before. Throws in an 'away from the Mudbloods' for good measure. Maybe, she wonders, she isn't suited for it after all. She's loyal, but certainly not too ambitious, quick-witted but not cunning. It's possible she's got it wrong. It's possible she doesn't belong, no, not at all.

"SLYTHERIN!"

And there it is. The thoughts vanish as she runs - grateful to have escaped, all attention on CASSIDY, WILLIAM (a half-blood name if she ever heard one) as he makes his way up to the hat - dainty feet scrambling towards the Slytherin table.

She takes a seat by Lucius Malfoy, who she still remembers from all those years ago. He's a second-year now, with a boyish smile and well-cut hair. He's chatting away to his friends, but he stops to give her a seemingly-encouraging look.

"Well done," Bellatrix says, with a mouthful of food, "on getting into Slytherin."

"I knew I would," Narcissa shrugs it off with ease, "it was just a matter of convincing the Hat that I wasn't fit for Ravenclaw."

Andromeda laughs. "Too stupid," she decides, ruffling her sister's hair. "But good job, Cissy." A Black, in Slytherin - it's almost a cliche. Narcissa's where she belongs, she thinks. Doing her family proud. Narcissa is a Black - and by Merlin, she'll never forget it.

/

By October, Narcissa fits in.

She's good at transfiguration and even better at lying, pulling the puppy eyes and 'but I'm a Black' on Professor Slughorn when she forgets her Potions assignments. 'I think I lost it Sir.' Blink. Blink. A frown until he nods and then a smirk.

They treat her well, almost as good as they do Andromeda.

Who, of course, does turn in her homework, because she's the clever one, isn't she? But Narcissa's the Good one and she hasn't managed a single detention yet, while Bella has had five since September. Andromeda two, for more insignificant things.

Bellatrix, she's heard, is on the verge of expulsion (just after her OWLs, too!) but her sister doesn't seem to mind, not if the grin permanently on her face tells a tale or two.

Narcissa's taught Emily Flint _(the Flints_ \- she can practically hear her father say - _are a perfectly respectable Pureblood family and you'd do well by befriending one_) how to braid her own hair, she's shared her fudge with Melisandre Gamp, she's even dropped a compliment or two to the half-blood in her dormitory.

She's popular - for the very first time, it seems - a true little beauty queen, spinning her web of acquaintances and friends, little minions she can rely on. They all wonder at how she knows Lucius Malfoy (a Malfoy and a Second Year!) and she scornfully declares it nothing, proves to them that she's friends with the Lestranges, tells them all (with the utmost pride) that Bellatrix Black - who is something infamous in the Hogwarts Halls - is her very sister and nothing less.

At Hogwarts, Narcissa is a thing of adoration. Admire her hair, her smile, her lineage, _how truly she glows_! Even the Mudbloods, she imagines, look up to her somewhat. Hogwarts isn't dripping with them, but they do crop up from time to time. She doesn't taunt them, like her sister, doesn't tease them or pick at their flaws. Oh, they say, how humble she is too, how _forgiving_! They are to be talked about in private, ignored in public. Father would be conflicted. Mother would have another glass of wine.

Bellatrix talks about them all the time now. She's almost obsessed with them, as much as father perhaps. Leaning onto homicidal territory - and Narcissa wouldn't mind, but it is a crime, isn't it? If the victim deserved it, too?

It doesn't matter, she decides, because Bellatrix is only sixteen and a Black and she can do what she likes. Narcissa can't wait until she's like that - when she's not a Good Girl anymore. She'd love to have wild hair and say outrageous things, (swear, too!) to smoke cigarettes and drink, but for now - perhaps only for now - she's happy being popular, happy with her image. They like her, they like her, they _like_ her and she wouldn't give that up for the world.

/

They don't even_ pretend_ to listen at Christmas.

Bellatrix gets a scolding, Andromeda a mountain of praise ("You'll do spectacularly in your OWLS," Aunt Walburga says with pride) and Narcissa little more than a hug.

They pack her off as soon as she arrives back home, send her up to her room, because it's never her moment, it's always, _always_ theirs. So she's hidden. Out of sight. You adapt to invisibility after a while. She writes letters to her friends. Picks apart the present Melisandre gave her, even if it's only the 20th.

Waits. Waits some more.

Narcissa goes downstairs and slips into the background. This isn't an oddity, sadly.

Sirius and Regulus are making noise - as usual - and Andromeda and Bellatrix are fighting. It's a typical Black family Christmas.

Narcissa's grandmother is there too, festering, sucking on her teeth and complaining about the youth of today. Her grandfather says nothing, simply smokes his pipe and watches on.

Family togetherness died out years ago in the Black family.

"We're having the Malfoys over for Christmas!" Her mother trips on her heels and by god, this is beyond _tipsy_, this is full-blown_ drunken-wretch_. "Isn't that wonderful?"

Her lipstick is smudged and there's some on her teeth, but she smiles anyway. Bright and bold. The result of a whitening charm. It's magic, isn't it? Red. Red lipstick. Things are constant in Narcissa's family. That's all they are; forever.

"But," her father straightens from his position, sudden frown appearing, "we're already having your family, Dru."

Her Grandma and Grandpa Rosier - forever proud they snagged a Black - are delegated to Christmas visits and birthday cards and something of a controversial subject, as the nouveau-riche often are. Narcissa loves them anyway. She loves everyone, doesn't she? Mother and father and Bellatrix and Andromeda and not the Mudbloods, no, not the Mudbloods because, because -

"We'll make sense, won't we?" Space. Her mother means space. She forgets, sometimes. When she's like that. "I'm sure the House Elves will accomodate."

Aunt Walburga decides it's a perfectly reasonable time to butt in, "Oh, let them come, Cygnus! What's the bother?"

Walburga and Orion, Andromeda had told Narcissa, (some time ago) were second cousins when they married. Narcissa had pulled a disgusted face and asked why they would do that. Something so foul, so beyond comprehension as marrying your own cousin - your very own family! - something quite akin to the thought of marrying a House-Elf.

Bellatrix had answered and Narcissa had learned of the words _'blood purity_.'

She'd also discovered that day, how marvellous the Black family really is. A sight to behold: incest and superiority. No wonder it's so treasured in the Pureblood community, how convenient people look upon it as an idol. Narcissa is a Black. Black, Black, Black - even the word is grim, _foreboding._

"None," her father answers through gritted teeth, a well-known sign of trouble, "I suppose, if it'll make Dru happy."

Narcissa's only eleven. She can see cracks running through her family.

/

Abraxas Malfoy is smart. Sensible. Attractive, too and he clearly cares for his son. He smiles and jokes with his wife. Abraxas Malfoy is a well-dressed, sensitive, Pureblood.

_(and Druella Black's lipstick is on his collar)_

Narcissa seems to be the only one who notices, that, or the only one who cares. She doesn't say anything. She's not known to stir up trouble and who would believe her if she did?

_Liar_, they'd call out, shaking their heads and their fists, mother's face flushed, father's stern and angry. That - that would be a tragedy, especially on a day like Christmas. A day of celebration, which her mother seems to understand all too well.

So, these are the facts: her mother doesn't love her father; Abraxas Malfoy doesn't love his wife and they kiss. Maybe just once. Maybe more than once. Maybe more than kissing -

Oh. Ew.

She looks over to Lucius, who appears perfectly content with his meal, munching away happily on a piece of meat. Narcissa feels sick and files away the idea of becoming a vegetarian.

She taps her fingers on the table. Pinky. Ring. Middle. Index. Thumb. Tap. Tap. _Tap_. With a little flick at the end to finish things off.

Firewhisky - Narcissa has been told - is a man's drink. Too strong for her, for Andromeda, even for Bellatrix.

There's a bottle on the table and her mother's finished it all.

Narcissa isn't ashamed. She isn't sad either, not like she could be. Mother likes to drink and flirt, she knows the drill, she's been expecting this. She's been stepping on broken glass (Mother likes the green bottles, but sometimes they're clear) since she was six, it's not a new feeling and the affair (that's what it is, isn't it?) is just a punch in the gut, not a deep ache.

Narcissa isn't depressed, Narcissa is scared. Scared and sick of tired of feeling like it.

Firewhisky isn't ladylike. Womanhood is always something mother's prized - not the gender itself, but the ideas and mindset that goes along with it: long dresses, lipstick, false eyelashes and lying.

Men - Narcissa thinks -_ men_ are a big part of it too.

Her mother is what Aunt Walburga might call a Lost Cause; far too swept away in herself to notice anybody.

She's selfish, Narcissa thinks blindly, angrily, too selfish to be a proper mother, to settle down with the tide. Narcissa vows that when she gets married - because she will, someday - that she'll never treat her husband like that. That - god forbid - she'll never treat her kids like that. No, she'll love them, care for them, watch them grow and never, ever, ever touch a drop of alcohol.

She loves her mother. More than anything, she swears by it. But when she grows up, she wants to be _different_.

/

When she gets back to Hogwarts, she doesn't tell her friends.

She could. She doesn't. Saying it aloud would make it worse and merlin knows things pass around in the Pureblood community. It would reach her father's ears within a week. See, being obscenely rich leaves a lot of time for idle gossip. Narcissa's heard it herself - she doesn't want to contribute to it.

Narcissa lies.

Her Christmas was wonderful, her family adored her quaint little stories, nothing unusual happened whatsoever.

Maybe, maybe, she's not a Good Girl after all, perhaps she's nothing more than a Liar. Yes, _yes_, a _Liar_, not a Bad Girl, just a dirty cheat, playing her own game instead of everybody else's. Lying has always been second nature to her, but _now_ -

She's helped along by her pouty lip and wide, innocent eyes, they make for expertise in the art. Look sad and they'll believe you. Look pretty and they'll weep at your feet. Those are the rules of the game and she's succeeding, by a mile, oh, watch her_ win_!

Next year, she might try out for Quidditch. Andromeda's just been accepted into the Slug Club - Narcissa's sure she can get in quicker. She's got her eyes set on Prefect, Head Girl and she's only a first year.

She picks up the books and studies, but it doesn't matter if she fails, because she's got someone who knows all the cheats and the tricks into getting her end of year exams word-perfect. By the time she sits her OWLS, she'll be a top-mark student, maybe even better than Andromeda.

Melisandre asks if she liked her present. She ignores the fact that Narcissa didn't return the favour, because she knows her place. Beneath. Everyone is beneath Narcissa, because Narcissa is a Black and proud, even if her family has it's ups and downs. Mudbloods, half-bloods, they turn their heads at the sight of her. The whole school knows her name; she's famous, _darling_, and she won't let you forget it.

She writes cautious letters to her parents, slyly dropping in a reference to Abraxas - not overt, of course - because her mother deserves to squirm at least.

Oh, but she's _happy_, she writes, jokes about not wanting to come home. Which isn't true, not really, because she loves them all, they're just a bit...well, things are...complicated, to say nothing of it. It's awkward. Even with Bellatrix, who's just been suspended for cursing a mudblood. A week off lessons and an apology letter (that barely anyone expects to surface) that and only that, for her status and wealth.

Her sisters are distant. Dromeda is studying for the OWLS, - she'll get Outstandings across the board, everybody knows - vigorously so and Bellatrix is hanging by a thread. Narcissa's just trying to survive, she swears, but maybe it's more than that too. She's trying to fix things, but it's been a hard job and she doesn't know if she can.

/

They all come home for the summer.

They're greeted with a kiss and a hug, all three, before Andromeda and Narcissa are shooed away into the dining room.

It's _Serious Talk_, mother says, which clearly they don't need to know about, because they wouldn't understand at all. They settle down - Andromeda calls for a House Elf to make her something sweet - and wait for the fights to begin.

It's rather easy to hear what they're saying, because the volume isn't exactly quiet. It's yells and screams, mixed in with the words '_expulsion_' and _'husband.'_

Bellatrix is seventeen, just barely allowed to perform magic outside of school, but they're tossing her off to someone, providing a marriage.

She's never been one for the sappy stuff, the whole 'love' idea, not like Narcissa. It must be...well, torture. The very idea of settling down, of smiling at house-visitors and chasing down children would be music to Narcissa's ears, but, she imagines, they're a violent threat to Bellatrix' own.

She wonders if Bellatrix will get to pick. If Andromeda will get to pick. If she herself will get to pick, or if mother and father will choose the most suitable. Narcissa would - for all her faults - never marry for money, (not that they need it, in their household) no, she'd prefer to decide based upon love and love alone. Somebody who liked her for her. Not for - not for - her surname.

Narcissa presses her ear to the door. Bellatrix isn't compliant, not yet, but there is a long mutter Narcissa can barely make out. It ends in the word 'Pureblood' and a murmur of agreement from her father. It's the ultimate argument, she knows, because Bellatrix is obsessed with magical blood (it's a newfound hobby, Narcissa's noticed) with Mudbloods and the concept of purification.

They've all seen the family tree, they know the meaning of cutting off unhealthy roots. What is it - one bad apple spoils the whole lot? Why, that should be the Black family motto.

Things have to be neat and tidy, not tainted. Of course.

Bellatrix would leap up at the opportunity to continue such a line and so it is, with a half-hearted note of resignation that she retreats, pushing open the door and nearly injuring Narcissa in the process.

Red-eyed and sulky, she sits.

"It's not so bad," Andromeda is prim, but her hands are slightly shaky, "the marriage itself won't be for a few years yet. And it's only a husband."

Only a husband. Obviously.

Bellatrix looks up in a flash. "Fuck it," she rolls her eyes, plays at being calm - and she's not a Good Girl, not like Narcissa, who is cowering in the corner - when she's not, not really, "it's not like I give a shit."

Not the proper vernacular for a Pureblood young lady, not a phrase Narcissa expects will speed along the process of finding a man, but she supposes that's exactly what her sister is aiming for. Resistance, as passive-aggressive as possible, but a dutiful dedication to the cause. Purification.

"Don't sulk, Bellatrix," Druella chides at dinner, knife gliding into her meat, "it'll cause worry lines." That's the last of the arguments on the matter.

/

They invite the Malfoys over, (Narcissa shudders at the implications) for tea and chitchat, apparently only that.

Narcissa is delegated to greeting, a friendly wave and a smile. She feels a twinge of guilt at Mrs Malfoy's arrival, but it's short-lived.

Her parents leave her alone with Lucius. He's cute, Narcissa thinks, in a sort of pretentious way; ruffled hair and a cheeky smirk, that kind of thing. Far too old for her though, he's thirteen and she's only just turned twelve. Narcissa likes boys (the Pureblood ones, anyway) even when they're pulling her hair and making icky faces, they aren't gross like the other girls say.

Boys like Narcissa. Everybody likes Narcissa.

There's a plethora of objects in her room that they could explore, but for now, they settle with a fraying old strip of rope. She wins tug of war twice out of ten, but she suspects he might've let her win, Lucius seems the sort.

"I'm bored." He settles on the grass, knees spread out (they're supposed to tuck them in, Narcissa's been told, but it's different for boys she supposes) and hands splayed across his chin. "What else can we do?"

"We could sit and talk," she suggests, patting down her skirt and joining him on the floor. Talking is simpler than going back inside, which she really can't be bothered to do. Which is why she proposes it.

He lays his head back on the ground, nose wrinkling in a familiar gesture. "What about?"

"I don't know," she admits softly, plucking a few strands and throwing them to the wind, "whatever you want, I suppose. Hogwarts?"

It's not the most interesting, she knows. There's that part of her that maybe wants to impress him, but she isn't doing very well so far.

"There's going to be a war." He sits up on his elbows, face taut, eyes serious. "My father says. There's a man recruiting. It's against the Mudbloods - trying to drive them out of society, you know, make sure it's only us lot left."

She pauses.

"What are they going to do? To the Mudbloods?"

He looks at her funnily - almost a 'you should know this Narcissa' type of look - before shrugging his shoulders with ease. "Kill them, I suppose. What else would they do?"

Pinky. Ring. Middle. Index. Thumb. Tap, tap, tap go her fingers on the grass.

She refuses to meet his eyes for the briefest of seconds, a sudden sweat (no, not a sweat, not quite so _serious_) taking over her system. "Well, good," she decides finally. Her fingers still. They flop, one by one and he doesn't seem to notices. "It's about time somebody got rid of them."

She pauses again. "This man - what's his name?"

"I don't know." He frowns. "Doesn't really matter though, does it?"

"I suppose," she starts tapping again, but this time it's subconscious, (she doesn't mean to, she swears) just somewhere at the back of her mind, "I suppose, we'll find out soon enough."

/

They don't talk much when they go back to Hogwarts. Lucius is a Third Year, all grown-up and Narcissa only a second. There's the odd glance in the hallway, a shared smile to acknowledge friendship but not much else.

Oh, but she talks about him with her friends, (not like that!) for bragging points mostly, the achievement of being friends with a Malfoy. They're used to the story, but they simper along anyway, because she's _Narcissa Black_.

It's casual at first, just name-dropping him for kicks and maybe a short discussion on god _how rich_ the Malfoys are, how special Narcissa is for knowing him, but it descends - as most things do - into schoolgirl gossip. All of a sudden, they've got this wild idea that she has a crush on him. Which is ridiculous, obviously, utterly so, because Narcissa doesn't fancy anyone. Except the Keeper for the French National Quidditch Team (blonde, Pureblood, wildly handsome, arms rock-solid) or perhaps the Ecuadorian Minister for Magic - odd, she knows, but he has the most dreadfully sharp cheekbones and everyone loves political power.

Certainly not any of the boys at Hogwarts.

Even Lucius Malfoy, who, Narcissa admits, does have a certain charm to him, but it isn't a particularly strong one. Maybe if he toned down the _Malfoy_ a bit - by which she means the insufferable knowledge and inherent sense of superiority - he would be...not date-able, for he passes that mark already, (according to most girls, anyway) but...Narcissa's type. There. That's it.

There's always the matter of his father, though. A dreadful bother, that. Narcissa has to swallow down bile just thinking about it. Which is an exaggeration, for the nausea stage has passed, but she does like to make _dramatics_ of things, however Lucius seems to take that trait to the extreme and she couldn't date someone like herself, not really, it would end in murder at the very worst -

"He's_ fit_," Emily giggles, hiding her mouth behind her hand as if she's said something terribly naughty, "you should go out with him."

The thought has occurred to Narcissa - he's decent looking after all, and a Pureblood - in more eloquently put terms. She pretends it hasn't crossed her mind though, with a roll of the eyes and flick of her fingers. "Ew." A short pause. "Besides, he's a third year. Everyone knows third years don't date second years."

"He could make an exception," Melisandre nods knowingly, with all the wisdom a twelve year old deems themselves to possess, "he does seem to like you."

"In _that_ way." Maturity, Narcissa's noticed, is not Emily's strong point. She nearly reminds them that they're meant to be twelve, not five, but thinks better of it and bites her tongue sharply.

She's a Black, after all, supposed to be dainty and demure and ever so polite, not to yell at friends -

Oh, wait. No, of course not. Blacks aren't obedient, they shout and they stomp and they _roar_. Narcissa hasn't got a lion's heart, not yet, but she's trying, trying as hard as she can.

"Maybe," she says coldly, savouring the syllables (_may-be_, it tastes refreshing) and raising her voice, "he only likes me for my title. It's not uncommon."

The glare, it's all in the glare and people are _watching_ now, but Narcissa doesn't mind, not really. She likes the guilt on their faces. It's pretty, in a way.

She prefers_ ice_ to fire, she thinks.

/

Narcissa patches things up with Emily and Melisandre - of course she does, of course, they're Pureblood and pretty, but not enough to outshine her.

She apologises, for what, she's not entirely sure and they lap it up, as expected.

She buys friendship bracelets for them, to make it up, red for Melisandre, yellow for Emily, blue for herself. Narcissa likes the world in shades of blue - indigo and sky, azure and periwinkle - better than the world in shades of green and silver, better than the world in black.

_(everything and everyone, you understand, is divided into colours and Narcissa's sick of being jaded)_

It might've been more accurate to simply write Black on hers, that's all they see her for. Not just her friends, everyone, even her own family, even her teachers. Narcissa on it's own, she's picked up over the years, doesn't count to anything, it's the Black part that's important, the way the people gasp, how she lets them fall at her feet, how Emily and Melisandre fight for the seat next to her in classes.

Well, the last one could just be the result of a tumultuous friendship. She'll never quite know.

As for the Lucius Malfoy thing, that's died down, almost flickered out. Nobody quite believes she has a crush on him anymore, which is good, because she doesn't. He wouldn't return any sort of affections anyway, being a year older, being a Malfoy, the only reason he'd be interested in Narcissa is for her name and her name alone.

Or perhaps her looks, but those are mentioned far less often. She can't tell if she's particularly attractive or not, the attention she gets from boys could be either, but she knows she's fair. Her mother says so and her mother's not one for covering the truth up.

Her_ brain_ \- oh, nobody cares about that, nor her tongue, or her sense of humour (when there, wicked sharp) - those are Andromeda traits, because Andromeda is the clever one, devoid of exceptional beauty, same with Bellatrix, whose talents seem to lie with her vivaciousness and brutality.

They're all pretty, of course, they're Blacks, but Narcissa - _Narcissa_ is the beautiful one and as such, she is deemed to be the ditziest. Air-headed blonde, she sees through their heads and into the stereotypes they've already devised for her.

Boys like her for her family. Boys like her for her appearance. This and only this, she's found, nothing more. Nothing deep, only shallow. The ideas of a spiritual connection, of soulmates, of - god forbid - true love have fallen through for her, just remnants of a childish fantasy. Beauty, brains and brawn. Hers is the most boring, she supposes, because at least Andromeda and Bellatrix are allowed to have personalities. Everybody expects _everything_ of her.

She's a Good Girl, she's a wonder, she says her graces and knows good manners and never ever swears. She toes the line, keeps her skirt a reasonable length, has pure little thoughts and sleeps soundly at night.

She's not like her sisters, oh no, Narcissa is different, for she wears her hair in a different manner and her lips are plumper and redder and she has clear skin, hair like straw-woven-gold. Narcissa is twelve and she doesn't want to be the pretty one anymore.

/

Christmas is...no, that's it. Christmas Is. A two-word sentence, nothing much else to describe.

"Let's throw a party," her mother says, just two days before Christmas Eve, "oh, Cygnus, let's throw a _party_!" Her father seems to be getting rather sick of spontaneity, but he nods his head yes and so it is.

A party. With invites too, sent out to the Malfoys, to the Rosiers, (her mother's parents, though probably related to the Blacks via inbreeding) to the Flints, the Lestranges, the Potters, the Gamps, god, even that one Weasley who managed not to be a filthy blood traitor.

The House Elves decorate.

It's a winter wonderland theme, all icy-blue and snow-white, no expenses spared on making it look as gaudy as possible. God, she just wants to...rip it all up. It's not the right shade of blue, anyway, it's too bright, too commercial.

The white is better, (not as outlandish) but still not quite-right, with a subtle threatening undertone of purity and war. _All that from colours?_ she knows people would ask, but they don't understand, they don't _understand_ her.

They hang little icicles from the ceiling and shake out snowflakes so realistic they almost fool Narcissa - but not quite, because she knows the importance of falsehood to her mother. Not that she doesn't love her. No, of course she does but she has to keep _reminding herself_ of that fact.

It's only the drink, only the drink and Abraxas, nothing more. She's still Druella underneath, just caught up in a tidal wave. That's a nice imagery. It's better than the reality.

The food is typically high-class, shrimp and lobster and the like, strange - how the theme is winter and not seafood - but better, she supposes, than serving up something like roasted polar bear. Which she wouldn't put past her parents, honestly.

Aunt Walburga shows up (along with the Pack) to dictate the drinks, mostly the wine. Narcissa assumes her mother will be consuming the majority of that.

(harsh, but true)

It all seems a grand affair, one Narcissa could be bothered with - after all, she is a fan of splendour - if it wasn't being hosted by her family and if it wasn't a blatant attempt to find Bellatrix a suitor. She wonders how that will turn out.

The music will be interesting to see, considering the amount of 'half-blood rubbish' on the radio. Celestina Warbeck, particularly, Narcissa cannot tell how she got famous. There aren't a lot of decent people out there nowadays; decent meaning well-bred.

It's weird, in a way, because Narcissa has this dreadful contempt for her family and the Pureblood community, yet she hates everyone else as well, under some belief that they're beneath her.

There's no real reason why. Conflicted teachings in her upbringing. Maybe it's because she's twelve years old and she's supposed to loathe the world and what it stands for. Maybe it's because she's just bitter.

Bitter Cow. That's what her father calls women he doesn't like. _Bitter Cow_ and _Spinster_. She hopes she becomes both.

/

It's half an hour into the party.

She sits next to Lucius, who is sipping water with a lack of enthusiasm she's rather proud of. They don't talk, just sit. Quiet, peaceful, she likes how he can do that.

There's no need to let words escape, fill the silence awkwardly, no, best to just let it be.

They watch the people passing, with their fancy dresses and drunk open mouths, only allowing an occasional giggle at some of the antics.

Bellatrix is dancing awkwardly, at her mother's request, dancing with the Pureblood boys. It's funny, somehow, but also sad, Narcissa supposes because they're the boys she used to play with mud and stones and Quidditch matches. The boys aren't like that anymore. They want kissing and sex and Bellatrix to be their wife. They don't care about her now, not in any way that isn't highly superficial and they don't want to play soldiers in the dirt.

Narcissa thinks - Narcissa thinks, that maybe, _maybe_, Bellatrix still does.

It's not even funny, after a while. Only sad.

She expresses the thought to Lucius. He nods his head forlornly. That's all he does, doesn't offer sympathy or condolences or anything.

In a way, it frustrates her, because he's supposed to say something at least, but she likes it too. It's honesty, what rare bit of it she can pick out in her world.

Andromeda is nowhere to be found, which speaks a lot of the days past. She seems to be ignoring the Christmas spirit (_'all about family_,' Aunt Walburga snaps) in favour of something else. Not a boy, though (to Narcissa's knowledge) - she's not interested in them, it's probably studying of some kind, or friends, or god, even _Quidditch_.

Narcissa wouldn't put it past her to try and perfect everything at her disposal. It's not different without her. It's not different without anybody, really. It's always been like that, with the three of them - if Narcissa were to disappear off the face of the earth, they mightn't even notice, all caught up in their parties and boyfriends and studying and -

And -

And.

Well that's it, isn't it? She doesn't have anything much more to say. Her words are insignificant anyway, she's trivial, everything's trivial, she's learnt that by now, that nothing matters as long as your name is Black, as long as you don't give a damn.

They'll forget her first name, in the future, like she forgot her ancestors before her.

Once she's dead and gone, she'll just be some fucking face on a family tree and they won't remember her in a hundred years, they won't remember her and they won't even care.

She sits, expressionless. Lucius smiles. Narcissa looks at the red unhappy face of Bellatrix, then at her mother, who is dancing rather affectionately with a distant relative. Her gaze drifts over to her father, eyes heated-brown, wide and angry and assumes he is talking about politics. She looks at the boy next to her and decides that Lucius Malfoy is _violet_.

/

Bellatrix decides the next day.

She's not unhappy, like Narcissa expected, not rambunctious either, no, she's more the usual; normal Bellatrix - bored. What a marvellous way to spend Boxing Day. Talk of weddings nobody wants.

"Rodolphus Lestrange." Her eyes are dull and her mouth is quick. "He was the least annoying."

She seems upbeat about the whole thing; (as upbeat as Bellatrix does get) especially considering her previous reaction.

It's the whole of her future, a life-sentence in two words and her sister seems rather hasty to see it happen. It's too soon. Too fast - she's still just a child, she's still relatively innocent and it's all slipping away from her now. Like it will, Narcissa thinks, to herself, in a few years, she'll see through the whole process too. A marriage of monetary value, who would've thought?

"Are you sure he's interested?" Druella's voice is sharp. "I've seen him eying up the Yaxley girl."

It would be a terrible waste of a word to call Margaery Yaxley pretty - not pretty, not beautiful either, something far more - Narcissa's heard the word _'shagworthy'_ thrown around, but she's not quite sure what it means. Shapely legs, bright green eyes, plump red mouth that the boys would call kissable, if they weren't so vulgar in their terminology.

"Everybody eyes up the Yaxley girl." Bellatrix rolls her eyes with what appears to be a mixture of red-hot anger and olive-green envy. They spark with emotion, that's what the boys like about Bellatrix, the fact that she's made of fire and rage and _burning_.

She's red, red, _red_, you can tell it from her eyes.

"But she's had a bit of all of them already, I'd dare say even Rodolphus has tried it and got bored - "

Her mother laughs. They wouldn't talk about her like that if she were a man, Narcissa notes to herself, but that seems to be how society works. She supposes she'll learn about it when she's old enough, like all the other things.

"Get him to take you out to dinner," Druella advises, picking at her nails with delicate ease. "Sink your claws in deep before anyone else does."

Is this, Narcissa wonders, how to find a boyfriend? It appears so, by the way they're talking. Possessively. As if Rodolphus and Bellatrix are already betrothed to be wed and any woman who gets even the littlest bit near is a filthy dirtbag.

They make it sound as though love is a competition. Narcissa decides, she decides than when she finds a boyfriend he will have yes for her and her alone.

"It'll be more like me taking him out," her sister's lips quirk upwards in a half-smile, "Rodolphus isn't much of a lion, I think. Sheep in wolf's clothing, you know how the tale goes."

Narcissa doesn't and she doesn't understand, not at all, not any of it, but she lets it slide for the moment, because most of life is like that and she'll know soon. When she's old, when she's grown up. When they're selling her off to a man herself.

"It doesn't matter," Bellatrix says later, when they're alone, "it's only a husband. We're not - " she pauses, "we're not even going to get married yet."

Narcissa licks her lips. She doesn't know what to reply. The conversation only came up because Bellatrix can see she's worried and honestly, her words did nothing to console. Only a husband, only the rest of her life. Doesn't matter, no not at_ all. _

"Do you love him?"

Bellatrix snorts with laughter, as if her sister has uttered the funniest thing in the world. "Don't be silly."

"I don't - "

Her sister continues.

"There are bigger things to worry about than a husband. Love..." she curls her lip, "is worthless. There are things to come, Narcissa, things to come you wouldn't even dream of."

/

She turns thirteen around the time her sister graduates Hogwarts.

Narcissa's results are almost-perfect. Bellatrix' are decent-enough, but this happens to shock everyone - the general consensus having been that she would have to repeat her final year.

(Andromeda's results, of course, are flawless, but that happens every year)

So she leaves Hogwarts - with a packed-full suitcase and a pit in her stomach - and heads home. Second year, over. Just like that.

Time's slipping, isn't it?

Falling away in tiny ticks; soon Narcissa be the one graduating and finding a boyfriend that's not quite by choice. Bellatrix will leave home soon. They'll break apart and drift away, Narcissa knows how things come and go; how they disappear.

She wants to keep everyone with her forever and never let them leave; it sounds dreadfully selfish but she's terrified. Terrified of what? Oh, of being alone. There's no fate worse.

They're supposed to be a family, the Blacks - _how glorious others deem them to be!_ \- but there's no real sense of togetherness or permanence.

Permanence - that's the one that worries Narcissa. She's getting older by the second and yet she still remembers herself at seven, how she longs for those days again. To live them over, to savour them this time, for there's no age happier and she's wasted half of her life on bitterness.

It's an existential crisis, she supposes. She should be doing something worthwhile but instead she's worried about not doing that, she's sitting at home and wondering about how she's throwing away her time when she's doing exactly that. Nobody else feels that way, though, that's the pause, that's the _'maybe I'm just...strange._' Andromeda seems perfectly happy doing nothing of the adventurous sort. Too busy hyperventilating about results, probably.

It's because Narcissa has no choice. Her life doesn't belong to her, it belongs to her family and all the boys who will chase after her once she's courting age, to her teachers, to her sisters to this person and that one but not her, not the way it should be.

And she doesn't want to get married, no, no, she doesn't, not to someone who doesn't love her, not to someone with her for her wealth, for her title, but she'll have to, like Bellatrix had to and time's slipping, slipping, _slipping_ -

/

Third year begins with a quiet sense of impending doom.

The importance of OWLS is stressed upon them, truth or dare is starting to become a favourite and oh - _Hogsmeade_, of course. Hogsmeade, she's realised (from the wisdom of Andromeda and Bellatrix) means dates.

And dates means boys.

That and giggling everywhere, moon-faces and heart-eyes and oh gosh, it's _awful_, isn't it?

Boys. Ew.

She focuses on her studies instead. Narcissa picks Divination and Arithmancy, two complete opposites - amongst others, but those are her favourites - and, to her surprise, it's _fun. _

Professor Walsh (half-blood, but quite intelligent with her words and related to the Potters) says she has a real knack for numbers. Numbers and sums, that's it; they're like colours, really, only simpler.

But it's Divination she excels at - tea leaves and crystal balls, seeing into the unknown. Maybe a gift, Professor Flores says, with a half-there smile and a faint voice. She's talking of OWLS already. The future isn't murky, Narcissa thinks, it's bright and beautiful; (with the occasional slash of black, because nobody's perfect) it's like a drop of golden sun. It's unknown, but it's wonderful and maybe that's the reason why - everything else in her life is predictability and straight edges, silver and black and green.

Unknown. The point is to blur the lines and make it visible. She's trying, she swears, but it's difficult at times.

(things don't look particularly great, but she lies and makes it up instead - it's better that way)

Her sisters haven't spoken to her - not really - Andromeda's in her final year and Bellatrix has only just graduated. Out with Rodolphus, presumably, their relationship still going strong.

It's like a weak fire from a candlestick, that Narcissa's mother is poking and prodding until it flares up. Hasn't happened yet. They're all still waiting for the day.

Andromeda's busy. She always seems to be busy nowadays, it's almost as if she's found a boyfriend. But of course that isn't true.

They know the rules: stay away from girls and stay away from boys who aren't Pureblood, stay away from people your parents don't deliberate over.

It should be the Black family motto: _nobody's free to love_.

If such a thing even exists, because, you know, Narcissa's not entirely sure.

She's never really had a great example of it, just the little notes from her admirers and floppy faces from across the classroom. The boys fawn over her and she rejects them and goes to Hogsmeade with her friends and time moves on as it always does. She doesn't feel anything for any of them, for anyone, not even the slightest twinge of _'ooh, he's cute_.'

Will she ever find someone?

No, the back of her mind says. She'll be like Bellatrix. She'll be like her mother.

Kissing all the boys even aged forty-one, with her own husband and children to use and abuse and manipulate. Narcissa's good at Divination. She just wishes she could _See._

/

She's studying. No, really. She's trying, real hard, to work.

Narcissa focuses all her energy into one thing and then half-asses the next, but it's no big deal, sure, _sure._ She's not a genius, no, she's certainly not any sort of Andromeda, but she thinks she's alright. In a good-grades, but not top-of-the-year kind of way, because school is hard and she's so tired, all of the time. Narcissa almost falls asleep on her homework at times, finds herself drifting off in class, off into her own world.

It's better there. Less lonely.

Oh, no, she has Emily and Melisandre, of course, of course she does, but they're more separate now. They've been running off with their own friends and boyfriends. Giggling and laughing and she _misses_ them.

She misses everyone.

Being a teenager is hard, the worst. Things don't go her way and everyone's mean and the work is difficult, goddamit, it is. She's up and down and back and forth. All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy, understand?

Work, work, work - that's her! - and oh god, she wants to die sometimes, but she's braving it through.

Just teenager stuff, probably. Just your average suicidal-bitch. It doesn't last forever, though, it's when it goes away - that's what she looks forward to - the blissful moments where she doesn't want to throw up.

She likes it when there's no nausea, she likes it when there's no sadness. She wants to go Back.

It's selfish, actually, because she's got this perfect little life and she's this wonderful, glorious, wealthy princess - in the figurative sense, of course - and there are people dying, being murdered, there are people starving and killing and whatever else. Nothing's happened to her.

She's never been anything but a Bitter Cow, a mudblood-hating spoilt brat up her own arse.

It's self-centred and horrid, but things are mustard yellow and oh _god,_ she hates it.

/

Time...it passes.

It's always doing that. Passing. She's tried to stop it on numerous occasions, but it's never worked.

Emily and Melisandre run back to her and the Malfoys come for Christmas. Bellatrix and Rodolphus go out for drinks, but she doesn't love him, not the way she should.

It's same-old, same-old, over and over and over and -

Oh, Narcissa's_ dying_.

Really, truly, dying.

It's funny that, because aren't we all? We all start to age from the minute we're born and it's a ticking time bomb from there. _Tick. Tick. Tick_.

She taps her hands in class at the thought and people stare, but she can't help it because it's a nervous tic and the tap, tap, tap helps her to relax, doesn't it?

The words rush and stumble in her head. They crash and burn; because Narcissa doesn't feel like thinking. She doesn't feel like doing anything really. No, nothing at all. She'd rather waste away. All paper-bones and chapped lips, like the skeletons they show in the Prophet.

She wonders what it's like to be a Mudblood. Probably worse. No, definitely worse. At least she's got that. Her Pureblood heritage keeping her sane, keeping her proud.

Marvel at her beauty, her _excellence_! Product of the Black family! A cheating mother and a pushover father, see what_ jewels_ they produce!

Her results are going up and down and her head is twisting into sickness. She's not beautiful-Narcissa anymore. She's beads-of-sweat and worry-wort, head bent over books she can't learn from.

Emily and Melisandre are back (well, duh, she's a Black!) but they aren't interested in a jumbled up piece of life, they want_ Narcissa_.

Sweet little Narcissa, who used to lie her way out of trouble, but can't be bothered anymore.

Is she wasting her life? Oh, who cares? She's pretty and Pureblood and all things nasty, they used to love her and now they don't.

It's kind of how things work.

They'll be fawning at her feet in no time, she's sure. Pleading for approval like lost little puppies.

It's hilarious, watching them try.

How's loneliness going for her?_ Great, great, very isolated, you know how it works_. She's gotten a lot of reflection done. No, that's a lie, she hasn't. Narcissa hasn't been thinking. Does anyone really think about what they're doing? Getting out of bed. Staggering into school. It's all by in a flash and nobody takes it in, they never sit and wonder _why._

Because society says so, don't you see? Like it says that she's a Black, that she's a Pureblood, that oh god, she's far better than all those Mudbloods. It says she shouldn't think for herself. So she doesn't. So she's trapped. It's how it goes.

_Tick, tick, tick._

/

Third year ends and Andromeda graduates with spectacular NEWTS; not that anybody's surprised, of course.

They have a fancy dinner in her honour, even more ridiculously over the top than usual, but at least they don't invite people round. The Malfoys, particularly, they're the ones Narcissa is concerned about. Thankfully (or not depending on one's views) it's just them this time - a good old Black Family Dinner and oh, aren't they the most _perfect little family you ever did see_?

"Well done Andromeda," they all say, because Narcissa's sister is the Intelligent one and these are the events she sort of lives for, the achievements they can be proud of, "very good."

They didn't say that to Bellatrix when she graduated, Narcissa notes, but she doesn't say anything of it, because she seems happy enough, they all seem happy-enough and oh god, she wouldn't want to ruin her sister's Big Day, would she?

No. No, she wouldn't, not at all, because she's a Good Girl, isn't she? The perfect little paradigm of a daughter. Doesn't smoke, wears her laces straight, does her hair in that godforsaken girlish plait and doesn't even swear. Well, on the occasion.

They all have their roles that they have to live by.

It's not a good life, but it's not a terrible one either, it's an okay-ish maybe one and she's not sure what her position on that is.

She'll never be bad, no matter how hard she tries, but she dances with the dark and it's all in the family, all in the family, she swears. No other way. No way out, of course not, how could she ever leave?

They'll be taking sides soon. In the war, the war that everybody knows is coming, looming upon them like some big black storm-cloud, they'll be taking sides. Eeny. Meeny. Miney. Mo. Oh, she wonders where _the Blacks_ will land!

Heads or tails, except everything's black and white and good and evil.

Black and white. Look, a pun! How clever, how clever indeed.

Will there be fighting? Gosh, she hopes so. Nothing like a good old slaughter of innocents to get the blood going.

That's sarcasm, by the way. Mudbloods aren't innocent, no, no, yes they are, _yes they are_ and they don't deserve to murdered, do they?

Even if they're all...unclean. Not pure. Always pure. The perils of being a Pureblood!

Narcissa quite thinks she's going insane, but maybe that's just the summer heat getting to her.

And the Blues. Oh the blues! It shouldn't be called the blues, really, because it's all grey and foggy inside, like the sky when it's just-about-to-rain-but-not-quite-yet. It's this funny feeling in her stomach, sort of an empty nothingness.

A wait, for something, she doesn't know what. Narcissa wishes she could give things up, but she can't and it's a bother, really.

/

She's back on track.

Not happy, per se, but -

_ Floaty_. Air-like.

There's this stage where you try and convince yourself of your own effervescence, so much so you almost have it down perfectly.

Yeah. Narcissa's got that. Fake-confidence and eyeliner.

Her friends aren't concerned anymore, if they were in the first place. Narcissa's all locked up, but she's doing it with style. With that happy little smile they all love to see grace her face.

Boys are asking her out again. Everybody's simply begging to be her friend, to have the slightest insight into her knowledge.

She's doing it _right_, darlings.

Oh yes, she's flawless, just like she used to be and now that school has started again, she's making all the effort. Her teachers like her again - as if they would ever stop! Her results are on the up and up; _'able to study at a higher level_,' - that's what Professor Slughorn said, but he's biased when it comes to her family.

She's that gorgeous little liar she used to be, all deceiving eyes and flipped-hair, licking lollipops and catching the attention of everyone there. Slack-jawed mouths and open stares, that's what she's aiming for.

She doesn't get attention at home. Isn't that why she goes to Hogwarts? Because she deserves all that precious gossip?

She's back to full mudblood-hater now too, because there was a period of self-doubt, (she shudders at the thought) talking about her struggles loudly to everyone. Going to the same place as them every day really makes a girl angry, doesn't it?

She's not murderous, though, she's always prided herself on not being a Bellatrix, just a bit pissed-off. They do no real harm anyway, so neither does she. She's entitled to her opinion, right?

They all nod. Agree with her. Narcissa's won them back and all it took was a few clicks of her fingers and a perky appearance.

It's slow.

Little pops in her brain, yellow and red and white and maybe-okay.

There's a hiccup here and there, where she falls back into winter-sky colours and repeating phrases, but she's sorting them out, sorting them out so she can be normal again. That's what she wants, isn't it? Normal?

(it's good to be back)

/

There's a dull thud of footsteps in her bedroom, (amidst the clatter of the clock) and she sits up straight immediately.

She's always been alert, see and it could be anyone: burglars, murderers, Mudbloods - but it's none of them, it's only her sister.

Only Andromeda.

"Narcissa," a soft, sad whisper, "are you awake?"

She's still half-asleep and things are slightly hazy - dark too, pitch-black - but she nods her head yes and wonders why she's being woken.

They respect sleep in the Black household, it's one of the few things they truly value. Funny how that works.

"I've got something to tell you, Narcissa."

It doesn't sound positive, oh no, it doesn't and she dreads the very thought of hearing what it is. Her sister lets out a small sob - oh god, the crying makes her heart ache - and inches closer to the bed, just steps away. The atmosphere is grim and confused at once; sort of a misty grey, like a morning fog on a bad day, but it's not a bad day, clearly, if it would make Andromeda cry.

"Come here," Narcissa finds herself holding her arms open for her sister, "come here, Andy, it's all going to be okay."

She doesn't even know what's wrong and it's an empty comfort, one she could utter a thousand times with the same amount of meaning, but it seems to console her; if only slightly.

"Don't worry."

She snuggles closer. Their arms are around each other now, entwined like sister's ought to be - warm and friendly, not a sort of Black gesture, but nice.

"I've come to say goodbye."

A heavy breath. It seems to carry the weight of the world with it and Narcissa doesn't know what's going on, but she plays along with it anyway. Goodbye, goodbye, whatever for? Her mind leaps to war, to death, to illness at the very least but not to, oh not to -

"I've fallen in love."

Her voice gets quieter and quieter as she goes on, eyes shiny with the moon and tears. "His name..." a tremor, a slight twitch in the hand and a vague fragment of a smile, "his name's Ted."

Narcissa can feel the words, taste them on her mouth and there's blood and sand and something else in her lungs and her heart, or so it feels; but she hopes - how she _hopes!_ \- it isn't true.

It's not true, it can't be.

The only reason, after all, to leave at the thought of love. The only reason she would be scared to tell. He's not, he can't be, oh but he _must_!

It's not a Pureblood name, Ted, but she swears it isn't true, not until it falls from Andromeda's lips.

"He's a - " the air is still. It overtakes them. "He's a muggleborn, Cissy. He wants me to live with him. He wants me to leave."

"You can't!" Narcissa cries out, suddenly fearful. "Not for a Mudblood, Andromeda, don't leave me, don't, don't - "

Andromeda kisses her on the cheek and stands up, seemingly finished with the whole thing.

The whole family. Her very own sister.

"I've already said yes, Cissy, I'm sorry."

To be loved less than a mudblood - that's the feeling; the overwhelming sense of disappointment and sorrow as she watches her sister abandon her.

No, no, it's worse than that, Narcissa thinks, it's maybe like not ever being loved at all.

/

They go to Aunt Walburga's for Christmas and there's a mark in the tapestry where her sister's face should be. Singed off, without any care or thought to it.

It's not brought up.

Nobody mentions Andromeda anymore. Except Sirius, who loudly name-drops her in conversation only to go silent when he realises. Aunt Walburga gives him _That Look_, there are only four gifts handed out and one less place at the table.

Narcissa expects a present at least, or a letter, or something to come her way by owl post, but it's all empty and clear on the Andromeda front. She gets them from her friends instead and it's nice and all, but it doesn't mean anything.

She has no idea where Andromeda is living, how she's doing, god, she could be _dead_ for all Narcissa knows. For all anyone in the family knows.

Bellatrix is constantly complaining, talking about the blood-traitor-bitch and her fucking-filth boyfriend, but they don't know anything, no they don't, it could all be a ruse, god, it could be,_ it could be_!

No, she thinks, it's what Andromeda said it was. It's love. Love that severed ties and ruined lives.

This is what affection causes, she supposes, such wild, passionate stupidity that she would abandon everything she ever lived for and everyone she grew up with. To go from hating Mudbloods to fucking them. That's what she did, isn't it?

She knows now, she knows, she's heard Bellatrix talking about it, how dirty and disgusting it makes her sister for doing something so sacred with such scum.

Her sister doesn't love her. That's what she knows to be true.

If she did, she would've made some sort of contact, a letter, or a gift, or anything, instead of hiding away in her happy life with her plaything. Or maybe she does still care and it's just a small act of rebellion, a fleeting weakness and she'll come back to them. With open arms and a sorry on her lips, the Mudblood's broken heart at her feet.

Narcissa's often thought about it. Not the mudblood part, she wouldn't lower herself, but running away. Escaping. She supposes every child does, every teenager does. Nobody likes their family or parents, it's just a common fact, that people feel that way, whether you're a Black, or a Gamp, or - god forbid - a _mudblood_.

The Boy probably hates his own parents, his own filthy muggle kin, enough to run away with nobody but a girl.

Running away. Everybody wants to, really.

Andromeda only chose to act on it. She'll change her mind and realise her childishness, obviously, she's not a stupid girl, it's only that she's caught up in silly fantasies and fairy-tales of love. She'll realise. Realise she has to come home. Narcissa hopes.

No, she _prays_.

It's a question of whether their family will take her back, really, because it's a serious act of betrayal and there's a burn mark which will take a lot to be shifted.

Are there charms to undo such things? There had better be, because when Andromeda comes back, they want to make sure she never leaves again.

Because she will come back. Of course she will.

Who would ever give up being a Black?

Narcissa doesn't say it - nobody says it - but she misses her sister.

/

Bellatrix and Rodolphus are engaged on a Saturday night in the summer time.

It's not unexpected, for it's been a year or two since they began dating, but it happens, the big show of it, in the living room. Down on one knee to propose - Bellatrix jests later that she should have been the one to do it, for she truly wears the trousers in the relationship - with a gorgeous ring that probably cost a fortune. Nothing else for a Black, _oh no_.

She's twenty and Rodolphus is twenty-one and Narcissa can't help but think they're rushing things, but they have no choice, after all. She notices that her sister almost doesn't say yes, that she hesitates, that she looks at her parents before accepting. True love, to behold. Happy endings must exist after all. _Fairy-tale_. The sarcasm could go on forever.

"We'll throw a party," Druella says delightedly, "to mark the occasion."

Another party. They seem to throw parties for everything, her family. An excuse for alcohol, maybe. Or just another way to throw out an excess of money and meet single Purebloods. It's hard to tell, when it comes to Druella Black, but Narcissa tries, oh does she _try_.

They don't mention Andromeda, nor the thought of inviting her. Narcissa supposes - she supposes, it's a taboo topic now. The burn on the wall still tugs at her heart strings every time she looks.

She wants her sister back, because she loves her. She loves her, oh, but she hates her, because she left the family, she ran away, for a Mudblood, all for the love of a worthless Mudblood. Bellatrix made the clever decision, that much is clear. The decision that keeps her a Black - in spirit, alone, because she'll be a _Lestrange_, of course.

_Engaged!_ Narcissa pretends to be excited for her sister; she is, a little truthfully. _Over the moon_, she tells them, just like Bellatrix.

Because Bellatrix is ecstatic too, obviously, who wouldn't be, for their own wedding?

_'An engagement party is a wonderful idea!'_ she adds enthusiastically, nodding her head and giving the most fake smile the world has ever seen. She doesn't know why she's disappointed, or anxious, or all these caught-up emotions (her stomach is grey and brown, sloshing over the place) because it's not her marriage, but she is.

It might as well be hers, though, for the exact same thing will happen to her in a few years time. She almost envies Andromeda, for breaking the mould and wishes for once, that she wasn't the Good Girl. That she could be, that she would be, the one like Andromeda.

Narcissa remembers the burn mark.

"I hope it's a white wedding," she grits her teeth and lies.

It'll be black, no matter what they wear.

/

A month after they announce the thing, they actually throw it.

Narcissa had assumed it was all Big Talk and nothing more, like most of her family's ramblings, but engagement parties are apparently in season. Totally In, or whatever.

Bellatrix looks about as excited as Narcissa feels, stepping out into the corridor and greeting the guests with a half-hearted murmur. They head into the hall, once everybody's arrived and it's done up to the mountains, with a very obvious theme of love going on. Lack of it, Narcissa thinks, kicking aside the heart-shaped confetti and taking her usual seat, that would be more appropriate.

Lucius is there too, only more lively this time; chatting with the members of other families and making conversation. What a social butterfly he's becoming.

Narcissa's perfectly happy with a glass of water and a book thank-you-very-much. She watches Bellatrix, who is answering questions about the wedding and dodging the topic of Andromeda. Rodolphus is enduring the _'no more freedom'_ jokes from his mates, which isn't exactly _true_, if Narcissa's mother is anything to go by. It's awkward and slow and utterly useless, as parties go. Still. She sits and observes.

They play a slow song after a while - a waltz, long and thick and heavy - just the perfect opportunity for love. She remains where she is, not interested in dancing with any of the boys or making a fool of herself. If Andromeda were there, they would perhaps make a joke of it and flop around in the silliest way possible, but she isn't, she isn't here, so Narcissa stays put.

Until her mother comes tiptoeing over to her, glass of firewhiskey in hand and frown on her face. "Go dance, Narcissa. It's not polite to leave the boys hanging."

"With who?" It's a perfectly fine response. Everybody already seems to have been partnered up with someone. Bellatrix and Rodolphus being the main couple, of course, swinging each other round and stepping on each other's feet in a fake-upbeat manner.

Druella scans the room, trying to find an innocent victim for her daughter. At last, her eyes zero in. "Go dance with Lucius," she hisses, "he doesn't seem to have a partner."

"What a surprise," Narcissa mutters and no, no, she's being deadly serious - all the girls seem to hanker after the Malfoy family, she would have expected him to persuade some soul to dance with him, even if only a Crabbe.

She offers her hand with little excitement, but he smiles at her as he accepts and they begin the waltz. She knows how to do it, of course, she's been taught by her mother and Andromeda used to practise with her.

"So," he says, a little stiffly, "any chance of conversation?"

"Not much," she replies, manoeuvring her hands. "That's what happens when I'm your partner."

He chuckles a bit, even though it's not something she was aiming for. "Go on, Narcissa, talk to me." Lucius pauses and he's annoying her now, with that oh-so-shiny male ego that believes he deserves to be talked to. She wonders what happened to that quiet little boy drinking his water and decides Lucius Malfoy is not Violet, he is Green, Green and Silver, just like the rest of them. "Tell me a secret."

"Your father's fucking my mother," she says candidly, voice ice-cold, "oh, but don't tell anybody. It's supposed to be a _secret."_

_ "What?"_

"I'm ever so sorry," she raises a hand to her breast, in an attempt to act startled, but there's a smirk on her face that could kill, "I thought you knew."

He stills, hands shaking. She feels - well, maybe - a little bad for him now, but she had to discover the truth years ago, so he might as well know. "How - what - are you sure?"

"Absolutely," she bites her lower lip and squirms as she does the twirl, "are you surprised?"

"A bit," he admits, facade coming undone, "but not really. It's gross, though. The mental images..." he shudders, "are disgusting." A pause. "You're very blunt, aren't you?"

She rolls her eyes, because she gets that all the time and what's life if it's not honesty? "You wanted a secret," one step, two step, hands on hips, she's looking at him now, "I think you owe me one now, Malfoy."

"There's going to be a war," he says, swaying to the dance, hand never leaving her side and good god, his eyes are blue, "it's starting sooner than you think."

"I already know this," she faces him head-on, head-high, face burning. She thanks merlin and all the saviours that nobody's looking at them, "you told me before, remember? I don't forget."

He shuffles his feet and she nearly trips, but he catches her just in time. "It's happening, Narcissa. Right now. And - he's got recruits. I'm not...involved in it, but I know the people who are. This is - " he grins, "this is finally going to happen. It's going to take off, it's going to spread - or at least, that's what Bellatrix says anyway - "

"Bellatrix," she whispers, face white, mouth open, "_fuck_."

/

He finds her in the garden.

She's shivering, even when it's hot out, (it's summer after all) hands trembling and mouth quavering. Like she's about to cry, but she's not, because she doesn't cry. Not ever. Never, ever, ever, _ever. _

"Why are you so upset?" He doesn't understand. Lucius is an only child, how could he ever understand? "Didn't you know?"

Narcissa stares straight forward. "No," she answers, "I didn't." She pauses. "I want the Mudbloods gone, of course - " lies, _lies_, she hates them, but she doesn't want them _gone_, she doesn't want anyone to die, "but it's dangerous out there. Do you think the Ministry is going to let this happen?"

"I don't know," he seems to consider this thought, "I suppose they've got people in there. Purebloods. Making this happen."

She gives a small squeak, not out of terror, or embarrassment or anything other than acknowledgement. "It's foolish," she wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. No tears, just eyeliner. "You'll all end up - "

Two sisters. One sister. Soon it'll be Narcissa all by herself.

"It's going to work," he tells her eagerly, "they're powerful. More than you can imagine."

People always say that and it always goes wrong. Narcissa doesn't believe in war. She doesn't believe in fighting, not even over worthy causes, not even over justice. What are Mudbloods good for? Nothing. Nothing is what they are and nothing is what murdering them in cold blood is going to bring.

"I'm not a part of it," he adds on timidly, "not yet."

"What do they call it? The group?"

"Death Eaters," he stiffens with pride, "we're going to change the world, you'll see."

Death Eaters. The word is black as coal, but the boy has pretty eyes and she believes him. Silver-tongue, forked and devilish, all into the night he feeds her stories to come, stories of purity, stories of light.

Change the world, he says. _Change the whole fucking world_.

He's alight with some sort of fire and she doesn't agree with it, no, not at all, but she ardently admires his passion for the subject.

It's the first time she's seen him glow, really, this dull little pretentious boy with a rich family and a lot of friends. He talks of rebellion. He talks of courage and ambition and cunning and nerve. Strength, to fight for a cause he thinks it's true. It's all bullshit of course, (and they're going to end up - ) all the webs her parents weave and simply dislike taken too far, but she likes his voice and the way he spins his words.

It's odd, how she can relate. She doesn't know if she would fight for it though, if she would get swept away in all the madness, but she has a family and she remembers the burn mark, god, she remembers the burn mark.

Narcissa's not a Blood Traitor, she swears. She just doesn't have an appetite for blood and bones.

(not yet)

Narcissa doesn't like murder. She likes Lucius Malfoy though.

/

She finds her mother smoking a cigarette the morning after, simply staring out the window and sighing to herself.

It's a sad sight to behold, almost miserable and an awful thing for a child to witness. The broken-ness of a parent.

Of her mother, her mother, who was supposed to bake cookies and smile at her, to hug her when she felt under the weather and make her feel - above everything else - better. No, not better, not better - _loved_.

"Mother?" A step further. No response yielded and Narcissa's starting to panic. Her mother's almost catatonic now, just sitting there, nothing to say or do. "Mum?"

A thick, uneasy silence. Anything could have happened, anything she doesn't know about. Narcissa's always in the dark about her family, (look! a pun! dark and black, they seem to work together) always the last one to find out - for all she knows, Aunt Walburga could have been decapitated or something. There's an irony in that, she thinks subconsciously, but for now, she's far more focused on her mother.

Her mother, who is still not moving.

"Mummy?"

Druella turns. For once, the make-up is ruined; dark rings under her eyes smudged with the remnants of yesterday's eyeliner and pale, thin lips drawn grimly into a line.

"Do you suppose, Cissy," she lifts her head, stubbing out her cigarette as she does so, "do you suppose, that Andomeda will ever come back to us?"

The question takes her aback. They don't speak of Andromeda, not as of recent and not in such fond terms as these. Narcissa didn't think...well, she didn't think her mother cared, truthfully, but now, seeing her so distraught over it, it's almost shocking.

There'd been no emotion, or so she'd supposed, just a clean send-off and a 'not part of the family anymore,' she had wondered if they'd ever loved her sister at all. It's hard to tell, now.

"Of course," her voice trembles as she says it, even as she doesn't believe it to be true, "...I'm sure she will." There's a burn mark in the tapestry that says they won't accept her, but that's an entirely different matter. "She loves us all, you know she does, better than she could ever love a mudblood."

The words aren't true, no, they aren't, because if she did, if she valued them at all, she would never have left in the first place, but it's besides the point. Narcissa doesn't entirely know what the point is - but she says what she says and keeps it like that. It seems to help, or maybe no it doesn't, she hasn't a clue, but - she supposes - it's better than saying nothing at all.

Her mother taps her fingers on the table; one at a time. Pinky. Ring. Middle. Index. Thumb. Tap, tap, tap - and she knows what they say about bad habits and families, doesn't she?

"Yeah," Druella breathes out finally, but her voice is a mixture of heartbroken and anxious, with no space for optimism, "yes, I'm sure you're right."

/

Narcissa gets a letter in the owl-mail that's distinctly badge-shape and holy _shit_, she's a prefect.

First in the family, if Andromeda doesn't count. Which she doesn't, because nobody likes to remember her anymore.

Honestly, she hates it. _Prefec_t. It's such a Good-Girl thing and really, she's just playing into the stereotype's hands. She wonders if there's a way to pass it on to Melisandre, or Emily, or somebody - because lord knows they would squeal over it and practically die at the thought of being a step closer to Head Girl. That's what everybody seems to want to achieve: Head Boy, Head Girl, Quidditch Captain.

Bellatrix wasn't a prefect. Bellatrix would have died if she had been made Head Girl. Narcissa still hasn't talked to her about...The Thing, but she doesn't plan on doing so. It's Bellatrix' life anyway, she supposes, just an excuse for her to do whatever she wants, whenever and if that's become a...Death Eater, well, that's all good and well.

Never mind the distinct danger, as well as the possibility of getting caught. Oh, no, a life in Azkaban - Narcissa's sure Bellatrix would_ love_ that! All the killing and the murdering, totally moral and_ right_, just another _staple_ of life!

It's her parents fault of course, for standing at the sidelines and clapping along every piece of the way.

No, or maybe it's the Mudbloods themselves; Narcissa's against extermination, sure, but if they didn't take up so much of the space in the Wizarding World, if they weren't so..._impure_, maybe purebloods wouldn't consider themselves superior.

It's just...wrong. _Weird_.

They should just be...out of sight, out of mind. Not murdered though, not _murdered_.

Bellatrix has a different view. Bellatrix has a view that's going to get her killed, someday, or force her to kill others. Obviously, the latter's preferable, but - Well. Narcissa isn't a murderer, that's it. She doesn't support the Mudbloods or anything, but she knows the spell (knows it's name, too) and she's never seen it and honestly, she wants to keep it like that.

She'd never perform it. Never, ever, ever. Hogwarts rules, Ministry's rules: stay away from Unforgivables.

Narcissa's a Good Girl, of course, newly-made prefect.

Dark magic just isn't for her.

/

She tries out for the Quidditch team.

It may or may not have something to do with Lucius Malfoy, who is now officially head of it.

Narcissa knows how to fly - she's been doing it all her life - it's flying well that's the problem. So she practises. Because she likes him or whatever; it's no big deal, anyway.

All the girls fancy Lucius, even some of the Mudbloods and even some of the boys - breaks a whole lot of boundaries, doesn't he?

She's aware that most of her competition are trying out for that exact reason - right lot of miserable half-bloods - with not much experience to go along with it, so she has that to her advantage at least. There are two positions open. Seeker and Chaser. Lucius is a Keeper (she could chuckle at that one, if her stomach wasn't all a tight-red ball of knots) and the rest are all unimportant on her mind, though, she notes, predictably Pureblood save two.

She taps her fingers against her broom before take off. It's become a blend now, between a nervous tick and a good-luck ritual, she hopes it's the latter this time.

"I'll go for seeker," she says, tossing her hair towards him. He nods. It's a split-second decision, prompted only by the fact that there are far less people trying out for it. She doesn't know why, it seems like a sought-after position - star of the pitch, after all. "Wish me luck."

It's not even meant to be flirty, her voice cracks on the final word, but he grins along anyway. No, he's not supposed to smile, she's terrified out of her mind and oh god, she's just realised...heights. She's never been afraid of them before, but now, Merlin,_ now_ -

He blows his whistle and she kicks off. It's a smooth flight, getting up there at least - about ten or so feet off the ground, he calls up to her. "I'm going to release the snitch now, Narcissa!" Snitch. Okay, yes, she can handle that, if she gets her grip on the bloody broom.

_It's a bit phallic, isn't it?_ The thought occurs to her while she's mid-air and she's too busy snickering (amidst thoughts of Lucius' broom) to notice that the snitch has been let loose.

When she does, she's off, scrawny legs dangling off the edge of her broom, chasing after some fucking golden ball for kicks. No, not kicks, a spot on some lame Quidditch Team. It leads her this way and that, escaping her grip and flying off in the other direction. Narcissa waits. It comes round her way again.

She reaches out and clasps her hand around it - the game, according to Lucius and his whistle - is over. Bloody pointless, if you ask her, but nobody would, not on matters like Quidditch.

"Good job," he says, as she lands back on the ground, safe from injury, "that was pretty impressive."

She flicks her hair again - a non-verbal _'oh, it was nothing'_ and takes her spot by the spectators.

There's a lot of whispers going around now, of course there are, she's a Black. There's jealousy in there too. Well, she can't help being the way she is, can she? It's not even like Lucius is interested, although there are definite hints of it and they have known each other since childhood.

Narcissa wouldn't be surprised, honestly, but she would be -

What's that word? It would be like...yellow and orange, if he asked her out and there's an undeniable warmth in her belly at the thought of it.

/

"It's you," it's not flirting, it's not, it's not, but oh god, she could fall for his smile and she probably already has, "you got Seeker."

Casual. She needs to play it casual.

Everything Narcissa's mother taught her is really coming in useful now, now she actually wants a boy to impress. They'd accept him too, Lucius. Rich. Malfoy. Her mother would have some objections as to it, presumably because of the son-of-Abraxas part, but she wouldn't want to reveal why, Narcissa supposes. Maybe she wouldn't have to marry some crusty old man after all, or some self-absorbed dweeb.

"I knew I would," is her giggle too high? too fake? oh gosh, she's never had to worry about attracting boys before, "but thanks anyway."

He chuckles, low and deep and it revels in her soul. That laugh. That laugh, _oh god_ \- "Good job, Narcissa."

"Thanks." She's said thanks twice now and she wants the ground to swallow her up because she's fucking blushing. All red and hot and sweaty, like a pig. "Okay."

Merlin. Okay? _Okay_? She berates herself for having said it, because the word 'okay' didn't fit at all in that sentence, not logically, anyway.

Damn, she's terrible at this. What happened to the Narcissa boys fell at their feet for? Gone, apparently, in an hour of need.

"Sure," he shrugs, (and he's got these shoulders - all broad and muscly) "bye then, I guess. See you at practice." It's over. Brief and swift, just like that and she's confused.

She wanted to talk to him more, maybe, but she didn't know what to say, oh and he probably hates her now, or something. Why did he leave so abruptly? Was she boring him? Does he hate her?

It's awkward and weird and god, god, god, she hates it.

Hates it a lot. Hates it so much, in fact, she wants to die.

No, that's a lie. She's been at that point before. It's not like that.

Fuck. Being a teenager fucking sucks.

/

Five. Four. Three. Two. Whistle. Damn, she miscounted.

And off she goes, like a moth to a flame, except not quite as close or as bothered.

She wants to impress Lucius, of course, but she also doesn't want to mess up and humiliate herself in front of the whole school.

Her parents bought the broom, a Pureblood-life the confidence and skill, but it's up to her now, to catch the snitch. That elusive little bugger. Slipping through her fingers and near those of the Gryffindor Seeker. Maybe it's biased. She wouldn't be surprised, knowing Dumbledore.

It's a waiting game, Narcissa hopes and the reason she hasn't caught it yet is because she's waiting - yeah, _waiting_ \- for the Chasers to score some more. Twenty to Gryffindor so far. It isn't _great_, but Lucius has stopped a lot more, to be fair to him. She always is.

Twenty to Gryffindor and it's almost there, almost there -

Oh. It goes again. Another disappointment. She knows she won't win, she's never been very good at sport, but it's the trying that counts and the style and how the people adore you. Which isn't very much, judging by the shouts in the crowd, but nobody likes a Slytherin - not even a Black.

Narcissa's close now, not far off, but the Gryffindor Seeker is as well. Stupid mudblood. Just a stretch. A stretch, right, that's all she needs. Out and out and out and - oh, Lucius is watching and grinning, look -

Narcissa's got it! Caught the snitch, on her very first try. She deserves bragging rights for that alone.

A cheer goes up in the crowd, a stomp and a shout. It's her name they're chanting _'Narcissa, Narcissa, Narcissa_,' amidst the boos - but that comes with being popular, that comes with being Pureblood - and oh, gosh, isn't it_ marvellous_?

A little bit of recognition, how amazingly _satisfactory_!

She's back down on the ground and they're hugging her now. Even Lucius - his flesh on her flesh, in the most innocent way possible, shit - telling her how great she is, how she saved the game before it went horribly wrong.

She knows, she _knows_, she's a Black and they _always_ win! Narcissa grins and acknowledges the praise, tells them she's so grateful for the opportunity, watches Lucius out of the corner of her eyes. He's getting his fair share of attention too and she always thought it was just Quidditch, you know, but maybe it's something more. Especially if it can instil this kind of reaction in people.

"Congratulations," he shakes her hand and maybe it's a bit sweaty, (because of the game, of course, nothing else) but he doesn't seem to notice, "you did amazing."

They blink for a bit, staring at the ground. She thinks about their conversation over the summer, about Mudbloods and their parents and Pureblood-life and wonders if they'll ever talk about it. Just life, she supposes. Leaving things like that alone where they ought to be.

"We're all going out," he offers suddenly, "it's tradition, when we win. Hogsmeade is next week and y'know, we just thought you might want to tag along. You're a pretty...integral part of the team now."

It's pretentious, just a bit, the word 'integral' in a sentence and not a very polite request, but his voice is smooth like butter and his eyes are peering up at her, so she can't refuse, not really.

/

They go out, all seven of them, to Hogsmeade. Narcissa barely knows their names, only that they're mostly Pureblood (with the token half, for diversity) and that there's Lucius as the leader. Everybody likes him, of course, they all waste the day trying to get his attention, except Matthias Nott and Annabelle Selwyn, who spend the entire time blatantly flirting.

It's a team thing, or it's supposed to be, but they break off into little groups, until it's her and Travers (Stanley, who seems sweet, but probably isn't) and Lucius drinking butterbeer at the Hog's Head.

"I heard about your sister," Travers says lightly, slopping some of his drink, "I'm sorry."

It's all she hears nowadays, sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. Sorry doesn't bring people back. Actually, it's what they all act like, what they all say. It's like Andromeda's dead. Maybe they'd rather she were.

"She's coming back," Narcissa lifts her head high, indignant, "she's not a blood traitor."

"Yeah, don't be a wanker, Stanley," Lucius claps his friend on the back and he doesn't care, nobody does, but she appreciates the gesture, it holds at least some meaning, "who cares about your sister anyway?"

Well. There was some thought in that sentence. She flicks her hair and pretends not to be bothered. They're looking at her and it's a bit uncomfortable - god, she knows she'll blush at Lucius' gaze if she stares directly at him. That's how it goes. Embarassment, apathy. Narcissa's good at faking the latter, but she's always been a liar.

"So," she puts down her drink, dabbing at her mouth with the back of her hand to remove the froth, "when's the next match?"

"Not for a while," Lucius says and of course he knows, he's got the whole schedule mapped out in his head, probably (dork!) "but after your performance today, I hope you'll do just as well next time."

There's pressure in that sentence and a slight threat, but Narcissa beams anyway. "Sure."

They don't talk for a while after that, just let Stanley go off into his rambles about insignificant life things like who the hottest girl on the team is. She looks at him, sometimes and he doesn't look back, or maybe he's just pretending not to, because there's got to be at least some spark there, right?

Right? Maybe. Maybe not. Perhaps-possibly-in a million years. Things are awkward. They always kinda are.

/

Her family find the letter at Christmas-time, hastily scribbled and left on the doorstep.

Andromeda and Ted, forever and ever and engaged.

_'It's more symbolic,_' the letter explains - but it doesn't really matter, because they don't care, her parents, or Bellatrix, or maybe even Narcissa, but it goes into detail anyway, 'we're _a bit too young, of course, but we're going to wait a while before the actual wedding_.'

"Fuck her," Bellatrix says, knuckles white and teeth gritted, "that fucking bitch."

For once, their parents don't correct her on her language. So it is. Andromeda's not coming back. They knew all along, of course, but there had been that tiny smidgen of hope, that maybe she would come to her senses and return home, but it was all in vain, all for nothing. She's made her choice. And it's not them.

Somehow, in some way, all the firewhiskey disappears that night and her mother's a wreck, (no, not like before, worse than ever) a staggering, drunken wreck, all_ short skirt and smudged lipstick_ and Narcissa feels sick, literally, physically _sick_ at the sight.

Slurred words and the smell of cigarettes isn't a pleasant thing to come home to.

She curls up in bed and thinks about crying. Doesn't. She's not a crying person. There's a sniffle or two, but not a single tear and it's poetic, maybe, or maybe it's just that life fucking sucks.

Andromeda would've come into bed with her. Comforted her, stroked her hair, told her some vague factual shit that sounds fake but isn't. Andromeda would've, Andromeda would've, but Andromeda isn't there anymore, Andromeda's gone and her mother is in pieces and Bellatrix is fucking angry. Everybody's angry. Everybody's hurt and lost and confused and falling apart.

Because they knew. They knew all along it was coming.

The alcohol goes the next morning. Poured down the sink, all of it, with a sunny smile and a wave of the hand. A non-verbal 'Who's Andromeda?'

Druella Black is an actress, Narcissa gives her that.

There's no possible way it could be real. Detox-mother, perfect ray of sunshine, with a _'how was your day_?' and a _'school going well_?'

All in a day's work indeed, a strange day, a weird, weird fucking day that makes Narcissa want to pull her hair out or..._something._

Her mother sneaks into her room at night and gosh, it's awfully familiar, isn't it? Poetic irony, or something like that. Narcissa half expects another _'running away'_ speech, maybe with Abraxas Malfoy this time.

She gets a kiss on the forehead instead and a long, melancholy sob. "I'll be a better mother," it's a whisper, grieving and soft, "I swear to you Narcissa, I swear."

It's a lie, it's a lie, it's got to be, she's never tried before, why would she? Why would she try, when she could just continue the way she is? There have been promises before, promises that have fallen apart within minutes, this one is probably no different.

But the alcohol goes and it stays gone and _maybe_ -

/

Narcissa goes back to Hogwarts. Melisandre and Emily tease her about Lucius again, but it's been three years since the last time, Narcissa supposes, so she lets them off the hook with a _'no way'_ and a roll of the eyes.

It wasn't true before, that she fancied him.

Now - well, she's got absolutely nothing to say about that.

They train long and hard (oh, the millions of jokes she would make if she wasn't a Good Girl) and she studies for her OWLS, so things are peaceful. In the sense that she's always worrying about tomorrow and the day after that, but nothing happens that she urgently needs to concern herself with. She jokes around with Lucius. Gets him to help her with her homework and they're becoming good friends, almost like they used to be, back when she was twelve and young and constantly-happy.

Narcissa can scarcely imagine it now. Happiness -_ a constant_?

It comes and it goes, up and down and fuck, fuck, fuck, (because that's the only feeling she can express sometimes) but she tap, tap, taps it out like that.

He still talks about the War. He still talks about the Saviour - that's what he calls him, this man, a Saviour of men. There's a name for him, so dark nobody dares speak it, apparently, because words have consequences and power.

Lucius is obsessed, just like Bellatrix, caught up in a game of dominance. She still hasn't talked to her sister about It. Why would she? It isn't hurting her, it's only really affecting Mudbloods and Narcissa's not a Blood Traitor, oh no, she isn't.

But she's not for the Cause, she swears. Nope. No murder with Narcissa, no way. She just doesn't think it's an altogether terrible thing, while she also doesn't think it's the be-all end-all of morality, that Lucius and Bellatrix and all the other (she knows the words, she knows them) people supporting it are evil monsters.

That's what the world makes them out to be, but they've got no choice in the matter. His ideology is fucked, sure, but he's cute and she's willing to overlook the little things.

Especially since she's been raised the same way, taught the same things except in a less extremist way. She prays he won't become a Death Eater though, because she doesn't want him falling in with that crowd, getting hurt - but she's not his girlfriend and she has no obligation to protect him, or prevent him from doing things.

No real reason to care, really, apart from the fact that they're friends.

He would do the same for her, wouldn't he?

/

They win the Quidditch Cup.

She knew they would, of course, it was all inevitable, predictable, but it's still a rush.

The snitch barely escapes her fingers, but it doesn't matter, because Lucius is a Keeper and the Chasers are surprisingly agile, so the score is 220-180 and fuck, they've..._won_.

It's a crush and a fumble of hands, along with a hug and a green-silver cheer from the crowds.

Off her broomstick and onto the ground, running up to the team and squealing with delight.

They won, won,_ won_! It's golden lights and dazzling smiles for them and they're champions, inside and out.

Not a Big Deal, really, she pretends, but her insides are up-and-down and idiotically happy. They've won before, but not with her, not with Narcissa as a seeker and she hates Quidditch, she really does, she's realised (bloody useless too, probably only there as eye candy) but she's a winner, now. Finally on the Right Track. Maybe this is just another step toward normality and it sounds cheesy and pretentious, it really, does, but that's what she's aiming for. Happy. That's the goal.

_Happy, happy, happy_. Like everybody else.

Or just what they think of her, what they see - perfect, positive Narcissa Black, always with a smile because she's Queen Bee around here, pretty and popular and why on earth would she be sad? Especially now, now that she's won a Quidditch Cup!

They'll love her even more, even if she failed, didn't catch the snitch, fucked it all up. They'll look past that, she thinks, because they ignore her flaws and don't care enough to fix them. But no, she's excited! Quidditch Cup! What they've been working for!

She does a little victory dance, even, (god, she's so much of a dork, it's embarassing) a pump of the fist, hands in the air. She sneaks a glance at Lucius, who is congratulating the team and almost on the verge of crying. Narcissa's almost there too, honestly. Happy. That's the goal.

She's happy, she's ecstatic, she's over-the-fucking-moon and things are _bright, bright, bright_.

/

"Take a seat, darling," Professor Flores seems moody all of a sudden, (like she's sulking, perhaps) but it's Narcissa's last exam and she can't afford to screw it up, "peer into the crystal ball."

She's done this a thousand or so times before - okay, maybe that's an exaggeration, but still - just for little things: money, crushes, her results on next homework. Sometimes they come true, sometimes they don't. The Gift is selective, that's what she's read, or maybe she's just Normal - but that's a less preferable alternative.

Narcissa shifts herself into a somewhat comfortable position and cranes her neck so she's staring directly at it. A few seconds pass and nothing happens. She begins to worry - what if she fails? What if she can't do it? What if she gets a Troll, in her favourite subject?

The mist takes form.

It's shifting shapes of darkness, swirling, twirling shadows, red and black entwined. The red isn't bright, or beautiful, it's thick and rusty and drip-drip-drip, while the black is suffocating, overwhelming, everything. Everywhere.

"War," she breathes, "I see _war_."

It's a coincidence, of course. Only because of Lucius, only because of Bellatrix. Not any prediction, or anything. Professor Flores looks concerned. Narcissa isn't surprised, really. She wouldn't think she'd know, it's still underground information, after all, still terribly secretive and not at all certain. No prediction. It was all in her head, all because of Lucius. Definitely.

She gets tea leaves shoved in front of her next. She knows them well, practically memorised the book off by heart. Narcissa drinks her tea like she's been taught: pensive but focused. Thinking, always thinking, about destiny. Tick, tick, tick, _what's the future_?

She twists the cup round in her hand and peers inside. "A heart," she says and her own is pounding, head all Lucius-Lucius-Lucius, "that's romance, isn't it?"

In return, she gets a nod, so she decides to continue. "A candle," it's vaguely candle-shaped, isn't it? "that's um, worry, isn't it? And...suffering. Oh."

What a wonderful divination session. Honestly, she's heard 'living in the now' so often, she's never really considered it might be better than moving onward, especially if that's what the world has in store for her. A series of twists and turns and, of course, a war, because of the Mudbloods and her Pureblood upbringing and fractures in society and so on, so on.

Professor Flores makes some more notes. It isn't looking good for her, perhaps, but the war one - well, Narcissa knows that's going to happen. It'll only be a small one, she thinks. Little-scale, few casualties. They'll win and then they'll all come home.

"Palm reading," her teacher says in a clipped tone, holding out her hand for Narcissa to look at.

She stumbles over it a bit, gets the heart line and life lines mixed up - well, they never covered palmistry extensively in class - tells her that she's experienced tragedy, by the break in her heart line. "And..." she pauses, "this - the mount of the um...sun..." ring finger, little mark at the bottom, "this indicates foolishness or an...uh, untruthful disposition."

Professor Flores takes her hand back. "Right," she says, "I think that's enough palm-reading." And Narcissa's fucked up, definitely, definitely screwed this one up. Pissed off her favourite teacher.

Fucked it all up.

Typical, really.

/

"Professor Flores?" She knocks on the door once. They say you're supposed to do it twice, or three times, but Narcissa's always been a bit superstitious (especially since it's a divination classroom) and besides one good knock and they'll hear you, for sure. "Are you in here?"

She wants to thank her. That's it. Narcissa's decided she's not taking Divination for NEWT - too much fuss and hassle - that she'd much rather take Arithmancy instead, still she wants to say goodbye, because that's what she's been taught. Polite to everyone. Not including Mudbloods and Mudblood-lovers, of course.

There's a sniffle and a rustle, before her teacher's voice rings out from behind the door.

"Go away!" The last word is accentuated dramatically. "Leave!"

Narcissa shuffles her feet a little, suddenly uncomfortable with the situation, "I just...came to say goodbye."

The door is flung open and a scraggly, haphazard Professor Flores emerges, hair like a bird's nest, eyes tear-soaked. "So you heard, did you?"

She's confused, now, embarrassed even. Heard what? Narcissa's regretting even coming, now, god, what it is to be nice.

"They're kicking me out," she explains, wiping her nose with the back of her hand in a vulgar manner, "Board of Hogwarts decision."

Oh. Well. What's the appropriate response to that? She's upset, of course, not overly so, because she did fuck up the end of year exam and she didn't want to take it any further, but Professor Flores was a wonderful teacher. Wonderful in the mad, but interesting kind of way.

"But," she pauses and god, she's not good at the talking-thing, no matter how much she does it, "what about...you know, the Gift?"

It's selfish, really. Horribly, horribly self-absorbed, but she's a Pureblood and they always are. Besides, she wants answers and what is she, a fucking _wimp_?

There's a high pitched laugh, instead of the sob, or the chiding she was expecting.

"The Gift?" Professor Flores throws some books into a bag and Narcissa winces at the sound. "Darling! There's no such thing! It's all bullshit, I tell you, complete and utter bullshit!"

She's crushed by this sudden, heavy weight. Divination? Bullshit? She thought - well, she had thought that maybe, it was real.

That she could predict the future, see all the Bad Things happening before they did and maybe, maybe, prevent them. But she hadn't. She hadn't, she couldn't, because now, now...it was all a lie! All so a middle-aged woman could earn a decent salary!

"I don't have the Gift," Professor Flores makes the hand waving gesture, indicating she wants to be left alone, "you don't have the Gift. There's probably somebody out there who does, but Merlin knows I have no clue about that. And now - " she stops for one final wail, "I'm fired!"

Narcissa heads out the door. She's not angry, not sad, just a bit empty. No seeing eye. No Gift. All just make-believe, some fucking fairy tale she'd convinced herself was real.

/

Her OWL results arrive over the summer, grabbed and ripped open by eager hands that aren't her own. Her mother, obviously.

There's a silence, an 'oh-god,' type one where Narcissa imagines all the various possibilities of her completely failing and how exactly she did, before she's clapped on the back and given smiles all around.

_ 'Fabulous_,' they say, and it's not an overjoyed word, because her results weren't that good, but they're pleased nonetheless. Better-than-average. That's her. A few Oustandings here and there, but mostly 'Acceptables' and 'Exceeds Expectations.'

Only one fail - in Herbology, (a small, black P amongst the rest) but that was to be expected, she's never really had a green thumb. There's an Acceptable in Divination. She doesn't have the Sight, she knows that now and she's disappointed, just a little. It doesn't matter though, no not at all. Nothing to her, really!

"Best in the family," they say and that's because Andromeda doesn't count anymore, not really and Bellatrix never cared enough to scrape more than a few passes.

"Well done dear," her mother pats her shoulder and she's _trying_, Narcissa can tell. It seems fake, but who is Narcissa to judge when it comes to falsehoods? "I'm so proud."

That's what they say nowadays. Proud. She thinks they're hoping she won't run off with a mudblood. There's not much chance of that, but she likes to play games, she always has.

She owls Lucius once she's escaped from the madness, details her results, politely asks him what he got in return. She misses him, she writes, but then scratches it out, because gosh, that sounds desperate and she's not, honestly.

The reply comes a few hours later, full of joy and slight vanity as he lists all his results. _Seven Os_, he tells her, oh, _but she's good too, almost as good as him, nearly_! _Maybe next time, maybe when they get their NEWTs_ and the subject trails off like that into Quidditch and his plans for the team and the trials next year.

She'd forgotten until he brought it up. Narcissa isn't interested in Quidditch anymore and perhaps she won't do it next year, but she can't tell him of such as it would break his heart.

Men's hearts are fragile, aren't they? That's why she must tread ever so carefully around him, not that he fancies her or anything, but she wouldn't want to hurt his feelings anyway, even with the simplest ignorant remark, because Narcissa's good at doing that, truly, it's one of her only talents.

She wouldn't want to damage his ego with something insensitive like quitting Quidditch.

She'll tell him when they get back to Hogwarts, she supposes and he'll just have to deal with it, because it's her choice and not his. It's gotten boring lately, especially after coming so close to winning the cup. She only ever signed up to impress him anyway, there's no point in continuing with it for more than a year.

They're friends now. Goal accomplished. Well, her goal would be dating him, but it's not far off, really and even if he doesn't like her like that, she's fine with friendship. Just not continuing Quidditch.

It's an awful sport anyway.

He ends with a note on the wedding (oh, of course, Bellatrix and Rodolphus, the perfect couple!) and that he'll look forward to seeing her there. She spends forever analysing that comment and wondering what it means, only to conclude with a sigh that the sentiment is returned and yes, she's dying to see him too.

/

Bellatrix walks up the aisle with the most fake smile Narcissa's ever seen.

No rosy-cheeks and heartwarming glow, just a sort of bitterness, buried deep below where nobody else (only Narcissa, it seems) can see it. _Doo-dee-dee-doo_ and everybody's happy when they hear the bells, ringing, ringing, ringing, except Bellatrix, of course. All but the bride! _Marvellous_, isn't it?

Narcissa reflects on this as she sips her butterbeer, acknowledging that yes, it's all very good and well for the system, but she cares about her sister too. She barely even notices Lucius sneak up on her. Sneak being a harsh word, because he just wants to talk, really, he's not a serial killer, or anything like that. "Hey," he says and she very nearly melts, right there on the floor, "I've been wanting to talk to you."

It sounds good, so far. Melisandre and Emily would be making 'ooh' noises were they here and not dancing on the opposite side of the room.

"Uh huh?" She lets out a breath, in a childish attempt to sound innocent. It comes out - as expected - strange sounding, but he doesn't seem to notice. Or he's incredibly polite. Whatever.

Lucius ducks his head down to hers and he's going to kiss her, she thinks.

He doesn't.

She's disappointed, a little, but she keeps it to herself. Shifts her seat in the other direction and crosses her arms, suddenly self-conscious.

"Um," he says, scratching his nose, "I like your dress."

Anybody could've said it, but she giggles anyway.

"Thanks."

"I want you to come to Hogsmeade with me," he tells her, "on a date. I'd like to go out with you, Narcissa."

It's not the most romantic speech in the world, but she blushes profusely, nods her head about half a dozen times.

"Yeah," she blinks a couple times, looks at him directly, "that'd be great."

Oh, aren't they the most _perfect little pureblood couple_?

So romantic. So blessed. What'll wreck them, if anything? Only darkness in their hearts and murderers in the family. They're not good. Look at them dance! The game of puppets!

(his name is lord voldemort and he destroys them piece by piece)

/

_(time fades like stars; bright and slow and unimportant and the same for everyone)_

/

She dresses in blue for the wedding, sort of a pale-azure, hair all done up in a bun. They wanted her to wear white, for tradition, but she wouldn't have of it. It's a Malfoy wedding, not a Black one, after all.

To think! She'll finally be free of that wretched name, a Narcissa Malfoy now. Malfoy, Malfoy, _Malfoy_. It's strange. She likes it, or maybe she doesn't, but it doesn't matter, because she's finally getting _married._

It's an indoor wedding - though the after party is outside - not exactly as she would have wanted, but there had to be something she let her family get their hands on and this was it. The place is nice. Gold-plated and fancy, with rose petals scattered idly and firewhisky for afters. It could have been a total dump and she still would have been okay to go ahead. Upset, obviously, but still prepared to marry him.

(she's marrying for love, you see, but the money helps too)

They chatter as she walks down the aisle, all their little gossip and small-talk, 'oh, a Black and a Malfoy!' but she doesn't care, no, because he's _there_.

Waiting for her, hands clasped together - probably sweating, she thinks to herself and very nearly laughs - in nervousness. He turns. Faces her. Smiles. She looks back and oh, maybe it's true, maybe she is the happiest woman in the _world! _

Lucius and Narcissa, Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. It's beautiful. All the things she thinks are beautiful are usually kind of fucked up and frayed around the edges, but not this time. Not now. Her wedding, oh, wow, her _wedding_!

She had dreaded it for so long, imagined a faceless figure she couldn't love, but Lucius is everything she could have dreamed of for a husband.

One step. Two steps. Three steps and she's there by his side, as if she'd ever want to leave. They stumble over the vows a bit, probably because they're looking at each other so much.

'Get it right,' she can hear Aunt Walburga tut, but she doesn't want to, because it's their wedding, hers and Lucius' and she wants it imperfections and all. It's supposed to be the happiest day of her life. It might almost be there, just about pushing it through.

His fingers wrap around hers gently, sliding on her ring. Gold, expensive, well-suited to her and her family. A Black wedding ring if she ever saw one - it might as well have Toujours Pur engraved on it.

Except they're not her family anymore, or maybe they are, because she still loves them. Even now, even with Lucius, she'll be a Black until she dies and she's -

Well, she's working on it. The pride part, that is. She doesn't hate them anymore, certainly, just a little tense around certain members and opinions. They're her family, she knows, but she's got a new family now. Officially, at least. Narcissa Malfoy. _How about that! _

They lean in and kiss. She'd been waiting for that part the whole goddamn ceremony, through all the applause and sniffles in the crowd and remarks of how wonderfully Pureblood it is, a Malfoy and a Black, in union.

There aren't any fireworks, but it's still beautiful.

/

They get caught up in the game.

She doesn't join in, she never does, but Lucius teaches her all these pretty words, beautiful curses and she uses them, sometimes.

Against people. Against flesh.

They're his servants now, even if she never took an oath. Enchanted by his promises of purity, of power. They're Malfoys, after all.

War rages on and they're going to win, she thinks prettily,_ they're going to win the war_.

/

The Dark Lord falls on Halloween.

/

He paces.

Back and forth, trembling even more than her, up and down the room. Mouth quavering in an _'oh god, oh god, we've done something bad_,' kind of way. Draco's not crying. He's just still, in her arms and she thinks he knows - he's only one, but he does, she swears, he does - knows about them, knows about everything.

"We've got to do it." Lucius comes to the conclusion with a short breath, eyes watering. "What other choice do we have?"

Narcissa rocks Draco in her arms. There's a thousand other choices, of course, but all of them seem to involve culpability and it's a dreadful bother, really.

Lucius doesn't seem to want to be held responsible for his actions. No, not his, not his,_ theirs_.

"We could tell the truth."

"How the _fuck_ can we?" He's angry now. Oh, she doesn't like it when he's angry! She didn't mean to upset him, no, no, she didn't, she said it as quietly as possible, just in case. "They'll send us away. You know they will, they'll send us away."

She knows what it means. She's traced the words over a thousand times in her head. Draco, Draco, Draco. They'd be in Azkaban and he'd be packed off to some orphanage somewhere, to a muggle couple without magic, or forced to live with Andromeda or someone else.

Azkaban. She knows the stories. She knows of the Dementors. Narcissa doesn't believe in souls. She just cares about her son.

"They'll check," his eyes plead with her and she knows what he's saying, fuck - "they'll check, Narcissa, you know they will. Maybe not you - you weren't involved, not really - but with me, they'll check."

He takes her hand, clasps it in his own. She was involved. She murdered, she brutalised. Only never with inked skin and a permanent bind. "Do you remember?"

Remember. She remembers, she remembers too well. When he taught her.

What he said.

Narcissa never used, it, you see, never bothered with it.

Just the others, the more cruel but far less invasive but she remembers; she'll never forget.

Narcissa takes her wand. It's trembling fingers and shaking hands as she lifts it, up, up, up to his head - like a muggle gun, like a bullet wound - and whispers a word she'd rather forget.

"_Imperio."_

/

They attend the trial in black and it's not ironic, just tragic.

Lucius tells the Wizengamot it was all a mistake, that they were forced into doing it, imperio-d; not by the Dark Lord himself, of course, but by one of his followers, no, no, he can't remember which.

Their faces seem to scream_ liar-liar-liar_, but maybe it's all Narcissa's guilty conscience, everything's in her head, right!

Dumbledore doesn't look impressed.

Neither does Moody. Someone - a highly trained professional, who happens to have a long-standing relationship with the Malfoy family - enters the court and performs it. The spell. Only on Lucius, of course. They leave Narcissa out, because she's on lesser charges and it's to be assumed she was under the same magic as her husband.

"There are traces of the imperio curse," the examiner says and fifty little quills raise up in the air and scribble down notes, "definitely."

That's in their favour, absolutely. Eyebrows are raised, mouths are poised, they're questioning it. The guilty verdict. Perhaps, she thinks, perhaps they might let them off - oh god, she hopes so - now that the Dark Lord is dead and buried, plus they only murdered few.

It sounds terrible, saying it. Just a couple of dead bodies in their list.

It was mostly Lucius, mostly him, but she did it too, she did it to protect herself, to _protect herself_.

They find them Not Guilty, of course.

She's a Malfoy now, darling and Blacks might _win_, but Malfoys _get away with things_.

She walks out of her court, hand held by her husband, head held high. Draco. Her concern is Draco and it's over now, finally over. Not a brand new start, because they only exist in happy-endings, but maybe...a chance. A piece of hope, fluttering in her stomach; growing, breathing.

She sits at home by herself and drinks wine - in celebration, she thinks, in celebration - and tries not to focus on anything. The wall, maybe. Yes, the wall, that's a good place to start.

Narcissa wakes up the next day and realises. Realises she missed her sister's trial, but the result is already plastered over the Prophet.

Guilty, guilty, guilty. Life sentence in Azkaban, for fucking up Alice and Frank Longbottom.

The words on the paper jump out at her and she's already heard the story, but not like this. INSANITY. ST. MUNGOS FOR THE REST OF THEIR LIFE. THEIR SON, NEVILLE.

She's numb, numb_, numb_. Her sister. Bellatrix, lost, gone. Three, two, and-then-there-was-one.

Look at the Black family, in all it's pride! A mudblood-lover, a prisoner and a heartless-bitch who - _oh god, here's the stinger_! - murdered people.

They both did. Bellatrix and her, the unstoppable Black duo, rotten to the core! They're murderers-murderers-murderers, all of them, except only one is locked away forever.

(even if they all deserve it)

THEIR SON, NEVILLE.

The words blur and shake and twist in her mind. Son. She never knew. Not an orphan, no, but practically one.

She thinks of Draco, Draco, sweet little Draco. Only one, with the world already corrupted for him in ways he can't understand. Set to grow up with her as a mother and Lucius as a father, destined for that Dark Path already. Blood is thicker than water, don't you _understand?_ Blood is poison, poison and her son will become just like them.

MURDERESS BLACK LOCKED AWAY FOR THE REST OF HER LIFE.

/

He returns, as all bad things do. "You don't escape," his eyes seem to say and Draco - oh god, Draco - falls under the spell.

Death Eater, her son. Her husband, for the second time.

There's going to be a war.

A second one. Bellatrix breaks out for the fun and Narcissa wants to_ die_.

Her family. That's all she cares about. Her family.

/

They crash into each other on the battlefield and god, oh god, she found him, before it was too late, _before_ -

"Where's Draco?" He doesn't speak and she fears the worst, because she's a mother and that's what mothers do, no matter how bitterly corrupt they are. It was bad enough when Lucius was missing and now, now, Draco might be -

"I don't know." The words send shivers down her back and she's always been a worrier, but it's not a worry-thing, is it? It's a life or death situation out there. Potter's side is angry, angrier than she anticipated and the Dark Lord is a temperamental person. He doesn't care about Draco, he doesn't care about any of them.

Narcissa pictures her son (her beautiful, brave son) on the floor, cold and still, bruised and broken. She imagines Draco - dead - and cries out at the thought of it. She's shaking now, trembling and Lucius is holding her, but it's not working. It's not working, she can't feel anything but scared, because he's missing. Every moment he's not there is another shout, another scream, another child dying off for the sake of war.

They're killing fifteen year olds now. They won't spare her son, how could they? Not the Death Eaters. Not the Order. They're all angry, god, so angry and they don't think about consequences, about lives and families, just fighting.

For good, for evil, it's admirable, in a way, but also fucked up and terrible. Nobody gives a shit. Not about her, not about her son.

The Dark Lord - no, fuck that, Voldemort - cares about power. His followers mean nothing to him, not even Bellatrix at best, just pawns in his fucking temper tantrum and people are dying and her son might be one of them.

But she goes to the Forest.

Because she's always been a coward and she's hoping - no, praying - that her son will follow.

No sign of him, only Bellatrix and her rabid lot and oh, of course, Him, with his might and his power and his fucking - God. She hates him.

She hates Lord Voldemort and all the fucking ground he walks upon. It's taken her so many years to realise, but she does.

She crosses her fingers and wills Harry Potter to show up. When he does, it's over. No more bodies, no more fighting. Voldemort's won, of course, but there'll be a place for them in the new life, maybe, with all their unwavering support and her son, she'll be able to find _her son_.

Narcissa doesn't want Potter to die, though, not really, but - she supposes - it's for the Good of Things and the Cause.

_It'll stop the war_, Voldemort says. Maybe He's lying, but it's worth the risk, isn't it? It's like martyrdom, only that it doesn't belong to her, like some big fucking sacrifice they're all prepared to make for an eighteen year old kid who probably never wanted to die in the first place.

Potter takes it.

He's a hero, not like her.

Steps into the clearing, bold as brass and head held high.

The others laugh at him, make remarks, even Voldemort himself shows off that darling wit.

She's heard the words before. Even uttered them.

_(avada kevadra and he flops down like paper)_

She sees Draco in his movements. She sees herself as a seven year old girl, still bright and young and free and desperate for that wedding. She sees Andromeda, because lord knows she was a mudblood-lover like Potter. Narcissa sees a little boy who didn't deserve to die and she sees her own son already amongst the pile of bodies.

There's a pause before the celebration, because they're careful, they are and he didn't come to be called the boy-who-lived for nothing.

Surviving death, there's probably a trick to it, or something.

She can't say herself, but her mind's_ Draco-Draco-Draco_ and nothing else.

She volunteers, to check, because she needs to know. No, she doesn't want him to be dead, but she wants the fighting to end, so desperately. Potter doesn't move as she approaches, only lies there and oh god, he might be, he might be -

The boy quite visibly blinks. Her head snaps back round to check if anybody noticed this, but they're all too focused on her to pay attention to Potter. Narcissa's moment in the limelight. Gosh, she'd better not fuck it up, had she?

It's a quick decision, tap, tap, one, two, three and she's decided what she'll do.

Not for Harry Potter - or maybe, because she feels sympathy for him, just a little - but for her son.

For her family, because that's all she's ever, ever cared about. She hovers.

"Is he alive? Draco, is he in the castle?"

Tick. Tick. Tick. Potter doesn't respond and she's beginning to wonder if she imagined it, but then, oh, _then_, his mouth moves.

Her heart leaps into her throat and her stomach is sick, but it's a yes, thank heavens, it's a yes. Her son - _alive, alive, alive_. Out there, still, fighting, still breathing and she is hopeful, _yes she is_.

Narcissa turns. They're patient, she has to give them that. She stills her mind, remembers what she can about blocking people out, because he's watching - he always is - and listening, intruding and snooping around.

They look at her expectantly and the words form on the back of her tongue. Up, out and maybe she's finally a hero, if for selfish reasons.

"He is dead!" A cheer goes up around the forest.

And slowly, Narcissa begins to smile.

/

There's an empty hole that the war left gaping in their souls.

(she misses Bellatrix,_ oh god_, she misses her sister like she once missed Andromeda)

Lucius stays at home on the weekdays and he doesn't have a job anymore, because the ministry doesn't accept Death Eaters, no, of course not.

He's an Ex Death Eater, she thinks to herself, but that doesn't seem to matter to anyone anymore, not when there are lives lost, families ruined. Only the Good families, that's who they care about, the ones who fought for Potter, they're the people who matter.

They don't care about the Malfoys. They don't care that her son is scared to leave the house. That he watched one of his best friends die. That her son is eighteen and he's already broken. The war broke all of them. It made them into villains and that - they all say it, she thinks it, she knows it - can't be undone.

Narcissa? Narcissa's surviving. She saved the world, you see, (_dead, dead, the boy's dead_) with just a word, but she didn't really, because she was trying to save her son, not perform some great heroic deed and there are bodies - listless, cold, dead bodies that say with blue mouths and unmoving tongues _'what a heartless fucking murderer_.'

Not a hero, no, no, she's not, she's fucking evil.

Evil, evil, _evil_ and war's like a bad smell. It doesn't go away, even if you ignore it and lie and cheat, because she fucking killed people, they all did.

The trial is in a few weeks. She's been dreading it, with this click-clack in her stomach that won't let it go, let her forget about it.

The Trial. Azkaban, her, her son, her husband, it's one or two, or all fucking three of them. Narcissa doesn't care if it's her.

She just wants her husband and son safe, safe at home.

She wishes she were dead, she wishes they were all fucking dead because that's better for them than this, than living -

(_the guilt, oh Merlin, the guilt, it's eating her up inside_)

The world is black and red. Black for death. Red for blood. And green and silver too, because they're always there, no matter how much she pretends.

/

They drag her into court.

The eyes are venomous. 'Murderer,' they seem to say, 'killer of children, destroyer of families.' That's just the audience. The Wizengamot look fair-enough, but maybe that's just what they're trained to be. Narcissa's sure they're silently judging her behind their spectacles and pursed mouths.

Questions begin. Quick-fire, rapid, blunt: 'how many people did you kill?' (_I don't know_, she replies truthfully, a _few_) 'did you aim to murder?' (_never, she was only protecting her son_) 'you personally hosted You Know...Voldemort, didn't you?' (_she was scared, they were all scared_) 'and what about Harry Potter?' (_she snaps at them to ask him that question_) 'why did you do it?'

She looks at them with a tired face. "For my family," she tells them and it's the truth, it's always been the truth, "and no other reason."

Harry Potter testifies. Announces her bravery to the whole court, how she saved everyone with just a word. Potter's good at seeing the best in people, she's come to learn, Potter's good at forgiveness.

He's a nice kid. The sort of person she should have taught her son to become, or at least befriend.

She cries a little, because that's what she's been told to do and because she just wants the whole thing to be over. She wants to go home and lie in bed and not feel anything anymore. She wants the war to never have happened.

But it did, _but it did_ and now she's being punished for it.

The Chief Warlock (a recently-promoted Elphias Doge) thinks.

It's the same end result for all three of them. A hefty fine but no sentence, because they're Malfoys and Malfoys get away with everything.

She hugs her son. Hugs her husband and leaves.

The audience - the audience aren't happy, she knows, they deserved worse, they deserved Azkaban but they didn't get it.

Probably because of Harry Potter, or their daunting wealth, but who's to say?

It's not just the audience.

Justice. They want justice, everybody wants justice.

They spit at them on the street, pull faces and reach out for her son, who seems to be as terrified as she is.

Draco. She never wanted him to be involved in any of this, but now he is and they hate him for than they hate her, the demon-mother, nasty-bitch and evil-death-eater who saved the world through selfish means.

They're greeted home by the smell of ash and smoke and the gleeful taunts of protesters.

They flee the scene, of course, but not before they express their hurt, through their fire spells and curses, all 'fuck you,' and 'Death Eater scum.'

The floors and walls crumble in front of them, collapsing into dust and it's nearly gone now, all of it, almost vanished, a memorial of pain and anger and guilt. Guilt. Narcissa will always be guilty.

She watches, as her house goes up in flames, one hand around her son and weeps.

/

They move into the house she had when she was a little girl.

It belonged to Bellatrix, not that she ever used it, she had married into the Lestrange home after all and been in Azkaban when their father had passed. Andromeda had been written out of the will long, long ago.

One, two, three and it leaves Narcissa standing.

Floating about, with one house to keep and move into.

It's useful, because at least she has something left out of the wreckage. All her things are gone. They scrape by, because they still have the Gringrotts money (though at least half went to reparations, as per court-orders) but all her trinkets, her precious memories perished in the fire.

Things they lost in the ash, she supposes. It's a long life. A long, hard life, but they have somewhere to call home and that's better than nothing.

She sleeps in her old bedroom. For familiarity, you know. Lucius snores as he always does and she manages a faint smile at the sound of it. Home, again. What she had somehow wanted and dreaded at once, all come true before her eyes.

Her son is in the next room, safe and sound, - that counts for something, doesn't it? - barely injured.

So many had died in the war and they had lived, they had survived, as they always did - by trickery and luck.

Malfoy trait. Black trait. Pureblood in general, actually.

Narcissa feels like crying.

She doesn't, of course.

The grandfather clock in her bedroom clangs as it always did.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

/

I don't own Harry Potter, or Anything Could Happen.

A/N: I know, I know the ending is rushed and the update took forever. Sorry! I hoped you liked it anyway? I really wanted to write something LONG so I just picked this pairing lol. Reminder to review/request!

Thanks to:

moondustandroses - neither did I until I got the request, but I'm glad you enjoyed! I hope you liked this too!

nerdyninjaunicorn - oh I'm glad there's a new Marcus/Oliver shipper in the world haha! Thanks!

karbear10 - thank you! I hope you liked this chapter!


	42. bad girls get you down - RoseScorpius

bad girls get you down

Rose/Scorpius

Warnings: dark, violent, sexual at times. This is rated M, but there's no graphic sex scenes if that's what you're worried about. There's a pretty in-depth reference to suicide (it's about a famous suicide, in the past, that you might have heard of) and suicidal ideation is a pretty strong theme, as well as self-harm.

Let me just say quickly that it is absolutely NOT handled in a very dainty way, so please beware. No spoilers though haha. This is probably the darkest one yet, so, yeah. READ WITH CAUTION.

Music: Sweet Dreams, Eurythmics

/

_(sweet dreams are made of this / who am I to disagree?) _

/

\- zero -

(this is how things go: the story is simple. should we sum it up for you? just in case?

she's got power.

'_brightest witch of her age'_ they said of her mother, rose claims '_darkest witch' _as her own)

/

The hat cries out '_Ravenclaw_!' and everybody breathes a sigh of relief, because _thank god not Slytherin_.

It begins with flicks of the wand and lazily raised hands.

Gifted, that's what they say, she's _gifted_, but it was to be expected, after all - from a child of _Hermione Granger and Ron Weasley_!

Talented - that's it, that's the word - not as much as her mother, but maybe, _maybe_ if she works hard she will be.

That's what Hogwarts is all about nowadays: hard work. And house unity, of course, because they don't want another war on their hands; any more blood seeping through the cracks in the walls.

They're already overflowing.

There are boys in pursuit of her even when it's barely months into first year. She's got this striking look, you see, jade-green eyes glowing brightly, sparking up in the light; hair red like sunrise; lips pouty and curled seemingly-permanently downward. There's no innocence to it at all and that - well that's the way she likes it, does it matter?

She's on her way to somewhere, definitely. Down that yellow brick road, there's a fate waiting for her. Two roads diverged; one dazzling-white and gleaming marble, the other thorny and knotted and paved with heartbreak.

Not her own, though. No, not her own.

There's a spark inside of her (we're not quite at that part yet though, don't worry, you'll see) glowing brightly, burning. Hidden away by a shy demeanour that's biting when threatened.

Poke it in the cage, watch the flame grow, grow,_ grow_ then fade, fade,_ fade_.

One day, one day, believe me, she'll set the stars alight.

/

Rose is like a rubber band.

It's a good thing they're not stretching her, then, keeping her doing the same tired bullshit they give everyone else with absolutely no regard for ability.

It's a stress-free life for her, sure. No point in giving her OWL level work (because she's capable, probably, good with a wand and great with her words) when all of the people in her year still stuck on transforming pins and needles into sewing threads.

No, you see, that would be favouritism. And they don't want that, no they don't. Everything has it's place and hers is in second-year classes learning things she can master in seconds.

It's all about unity, you know, and about making them think they're just as good as the rest.

Wouldn't want anyone getting any grand ideas. Starting any wars or anything.

So she goes to the school library, because she's got to challenge herself somehow, if they're all going to be useless buggers about it.

She feels like, fuck, _Matilda_; just sitting there, _reading_, but the books are interesting.

All the words are traced with her finger, whispered aloud and then performed – later - with her wand. It's Phoenix Feather, actually, same as her uncle - oh,and Voldemort, of course. Must've been cautious, selling that one. Great power, great responsibility, all that nonsense.

Rose can vanish things now. Not people, yet, but she is only thirteen; barely a teenager, young enough so that it's still a remarkable accomplishment, one that might have taken even her dear old mum a year or so longer. Plus, she's fairly sure making people disappear is illegal, though she's sure they turn up eventually. Maybe. Just quite where, that's the main thing.

She's almost finished all the books. Don't worry, she's a quick reader. Speed of lightning. She knows, she knows, _after her mother_; it's a tired rhetoric.

After she's done with them, she doesn't quite know what she'll do.

There is the Restricted Section. But it's restricted.

Rose thinks she'll find a way around that. Maybe later. She's getting tired of books and fuck knows she doesn't want to end up like _Her_.

_Should socialise a bit more_, that's what her dad says, but she doesn't care for the other kids. Especially not the girls in her dormitory. They pull their socks up too high and wear their skirts too long, do all their homework on time and copy the latest trends in the magazines.

They don't favour individuality. It's been programmed into them by now: friendship and love and togetherness. It only takes one rotten apple, that's what they say. Certainly did last time.

It's dull synchronicity, little more, oh and _caring_, of course, because who could forget about that?

Rose is like a rubber band.

Stretch her too far and she snaps.

/

\- one -

(this is how things go: she hates her mother. Her father is alright, her brother too. oh, and albus, she admits, with his funny little mind and intelligence almost matching hers. she despises everybody else.

love? no she doesn't love. haven't you heard? there's no such thing.

and, she supposes, nobody loves her back.

why would they? it's not like she has anything special to offer. no ray-of-sunshine light, only bitter with and quick brain. seems about right. she doesn't love anybody, so nobody loves her either.

we'll come back to that later.)

/

Sometime between the start and end of her fourth year she discovers fooling around alleviates the feeling of boredom.

She's got a string of them now: boys, boys and the occasional girl, all chasing round after little old her like lost puppies. Oh, the simile's somewhat cliche, sure, but what's Rose if she's not _traditional_?

No, she doesn't fuck them - she's got a little brother at the school now, god, she has to think about him at least - she's a bit of a tease, really, all stockings and no thigh, but she messes around, bats her eyelashes (one, two, three, there's the ticket!) and leaves rough kisses along their necks, because she's just that kind of girl.

Nobody says anything to her about it. There aren't even whispers of 'slut' down the corridor. They wouldn't dare, not with her. There's something about the eyeliner and deliberately-ripped clothes that screams 'back off.'

She doesn't have many friends, only Albus, really, Slytherin Albus withthe dark potions and the grand ideas that sound pretty in her head and pitch-black on the tip of his tongue.

They wanted to, at first. Her uncle's Harry Potter, you know, her mum's Hermione Granger and her dad's the other one - Ron Weasley, that's it. Ran right up to her on the first day, shook her hand and begged to be made famous.

Names are important in this new world, but Rose is going to make her own. They'll see.

She puts someone in the hospital wing for calling her a bitch. Hexes their head ten times the size, turns their balls yellow - creative touch, isn't it, considering they're usually blue?

Only gets a detention - she's the child of war heroes, probably a fragile little thing - besides, they probably deserved it (the teachers refuse to listen to the case at hand, assume this position once they learn of the perpetrator) and the charms are impressive, for someone in fourth year.

McGonagall doesn't approve of the decision, but, Rose thinks furiously, she's always had it in for her, since the day she was sorted, old cow.

The board of governors forgets about the incident. They'll make her prefect next year, perhaps. She's doing terribly well with her grades, have you heard?

/

She goes home for the summer.

Her father jokes around in the way he always does: uncomfortable and blatant attempt to drain away the tension. It drips and leaks through the holes in their family, hisses and puffs like poisonous gas. Suffocates them, sometimes, but Rose doesn't mind, no, why would she?

As for Rose's mother - well, she's working away at the ministry, wasting her hours on bills of rights that will never get passed. There's no surprise there, only faint dull acknowledgment and an atmosphere of not really caring whatsoever.

He reads Hugo fairy tales - ("_dad_," he protests, "_I'm eleven now_.") - Snow White and Cinderella, maybe Jack the Giant Killer if Hugo is feeling in a more masculine mood. Rose rolls her eyes and knows that he's trying. More than she can say of -

Hmm. Well. God knows she doesn't like to get involved.

(no, she's kidding, she laps up the drama like a cat with cream)

She introduced them to him, Rose knows, after they got married. Welcomed him to the muggle ways. Not the _fun_ things, obviously, wouldn't be Hermione Granger if she had.

Her dad loves them, of course, because he loves his wife; he's just not entirely sure she loves him back. He knows, obviously, he thinks he knows, but there's still that inkling of doubt. That little seed planted deep inside of him, growing big and tall, taking root. Spreading.

Rose can see it. Rose can see a lot of things.

Hermione comes home one night halfway through the holidays, with a small smile, as much as she can muster. "I've got a week off," she says, eyes tired, voice small and cracked, "why don't we go away?"

"I'll be fine by myself," Rose replies, and she likes the way her mother's face falls, "I mean, trust me, I would come, but I've got a lot of, um, homework."

Her mother rubs the back of her neck with her hand and looks at her husband before giving a nod. "Okay. But don't have any parties."

"I don't have any friends," she's blunt in her response, "who would I invite?"

Look. She's got them stumped. Happens a lot, doesn't it?. "Okay," it takes her mother a while and she's already said this before, but Rose is being a good girl right now, can't say what she thinks, "okay. Okay."

/

\- two -

(this is how things go: her mother likes muggle books.

all the boring stuff: dickens, vonnegut, joyce. pretentious. bullshit. suits her well, rose thinks sometimes.

her mother's bullshit is perforated. roses likes her pretentious bullshit raw and served up the way it is. that's why she reads plath. you know what plath did? stuck her head in an oven. rose likes that story. she likes it a lot. inspirational, really.

her mother also likes work. twice as much as her children, rose thinks. she'll be minister for magic, someday, her mother.

rose doesn't like government. those silly little rules, they get in the way of things, don't they?

her mother loves it, but her mother also loves joyce. and almond biscuits. and the south of france. and house elves. and bills of rights.

here's a little joke. you want to know what hermione granger doesn't love? ... her family, rose thinks. and chuckles to herself.)

/

Rose loses her virginity to Scorpius Malfoy.

He is - to her knowledge, it's not exactly like she cares - some blonde

Hufflepuff boy with extremely little relevance or place in the world, but he's the boy her parents warned her about and the irony is implicit.

Beautiful, really, that's why she does it.

His father (and his grandfather too, the line stretches back awhile) was a Death Eater, which is vaguely-cool, but she's not particularly about that pureblood supremacy tosh. She's always believed motives are tedious.

Takes away the colour, the imagination in everything, makes it all black-and-white (with the occasional splash of hazy-grey) when it should be red, red, red.

Anyway, Scorpius doesn't seem even remotely involved in anything of the sort. He's a shit lover, sweet and gentle; caring - that's the word - it's an utterly unexciting experience to go through.

_It's supposed to hurt_, she thinks crossly to herself, _why didn't it hurt_?

He rolls over on his side and stares at her with wide-eyes and a look of devoted infatuation.

"I've liked you," he tells her, breathlessly, "for about the last year or so."

Rose lets a cigarette dangle from her lip carelessly, (it's effortless, how beautiful she is) bemused expression taking over her face. "Fuck off."

"W-what?" He's stuttering. Cute. She blows smoke out in rings and doesn't give a fuck. "Aren't we - "

_(New lovers lit by silver moons? In desperate, storm-ravaging love that'll leave us breathless? Going out for coffee sometime?)_

God, in all the shapes of her destiny, Rose can't quite imagine anything worse.

"No." Rose cringes at him sitting there in the bed, looking lost and heartbroken and foolish. "No, we're not."

Did she break his heart? Crush his soul? Oh thank god. At least something fun came out of the encounter.

She doesn't believe in love, that's it, only pleasure and giving yourself over to it. It isn't like in the films.

She's not going to be swept away by some hopeless romantic and most certainly not Scorpius Malfoy, though the 'hopeless' part is fairly accurate.

"Scorpius," she stubs out her cigarette, shaking her head darkly in amusement, "do you understand the meaning of the words _'fuck off'_?"

He seems lost. She has that effect, occasionally. It's the eyes, isn't it? Maybe she should start wearing sunglasses - the thought's occurred to her more than once - or just cut herself off from contact with like, everyone.

Her fault, really, for having great taste, but she wanted the experience and now it's over and done with. She'll find someone more talented, next time, less emotionally-fucked, too.

Clingy. That's the word. Clingy.

Jesus. She could hardly remember his name before she fucked him.

"Well, yeah, um, yeah." Is he going to cry? Crying would make the whole thing far more enjoyable. It's slightly uncomfortable right now, but it's alright. Rose likes the tension, if it's not focused on her. "I guess."

And he runs, like the lamb runs from the wolf.

But it doesn't normally wander back.

/

They make her Prefect, just like they did her parents. Adorable. If she could bother with the responsibility, she would, but she can't, so she doesn't.

See? It's all simple, like we said, right at the beginning. You can check, if you'd like.

She's found her next victim. He's a Slytherin Prefect, attends the meetings occasionally - she sees him on the rare times she does show up - in seventh year, loud enough so she can hear him, but not obnoxious, either, like the Head Boy.

Rose catches him staring at her sometimes. She's not got a crush on him, see, she just wants to _try him out._

So she flashes a bit of leg, sends cute little glances his way - all girlish, she imagines, coy - blinks her long-lidded eyes until he's hers. She pretends not to notice. Keeps him hanging; hook, line, _sinker_.

There's a book in the Restricted Section. Leglimency. It takes her a while - a week, at least - and she's struggling, a bit, but she tries it out on him, attempts to break into his...not his thoughts, no, but his _aura_, during the meetings.

It's nothing much - she's not amazing, you see, not yet, not as good as her mother - just little flashes, here and there.

Rose laughs aloud, because it's all so utterly predictable, the basic human brain and nothing much more. Primeval in nature. Food, fucking (there are some rather enlightening opinions on her chest) and sleep.

The rest, she supposes, comes under fulfilment: How is he going to get his homework done? Will he come top of the class in Divination? _Will he make any mark on the world at all? _

In regards to that last one, Rose thinks, of course he won't! The good die like flies: quick and too-soon and nobody cares when they're gone.

She doesn't whisper that in his ear when he fucks her. She doesn't say anything at all.

She doesn't pay it any more attention, but it's fine, because he doesn't either. Men, you'll come to understand reading this, mean very little. Only good for one thing, oh, and that's only to _some_!

Woman began the earth. Woman will end it.

The world is set in stone.

/

Scorpius Malfoy joins the Quidditch team.

Oh, no! No, he doesn't _join_; he's even too low-down in the social hierachy for that and he's not exactly good enough to get in by merit, no, he replaces someone.

Some ugly bugger who got in a car accident and can't ever play again. Rose thinks that's funny. Apparently, she's the only one.

She's always felt that Quidditch is a rather trivial sport. Her uncle (specifically, Harry, though most are guilty of the sentiment from time to time) is constantly trying to get her to join in with her cousins - James, for example, is Gryffindor Captain, Louis is an avid purveyor of the Word Cup.

She turns up her nose and wonders why people would want to chase fucking balls for hours on end.

Everybody goes wild for it at Hogwarts. They still play against each other in house teams, (house unity, apparently, means fuck-all when it comes to Quidditch) and Gryffindor always wins, just like the stories Uncle

Harry tells and it's boring, she thinks, how it never changes, but nobody else seems to mind.

It's mandatory to attend now. Cheer for your team. Rose wants

to puke _sunshine and rainbows_ in her excitement.

It's Hufflepuff vs. Ravenclaw and all she's doing is waiting. For him to fuck up and embarrass himself. Because it'll be funny. Why else?

She doesn't much care who wins, only about that, also maybe an injury, because she loves watching those. It'd be best if it was his, actually, it'd make her fucking day.

He does a swoop, gives about the best smirk he can muster (Hufflepuffs, you know, quite fragile, not cocky) and puts the ball right through the hoop.

And, for whatever reason,the whole crowd erupts.

So it goes. Again and again. Ball in the hoop. As if he's talented, or something, but of course it can't be that.

It's Scorpius Malfoy and boys who fuck like they're trying not to break something are not supposed to be good at Quidditch.

Boys who stutter and belong to Hufflepuff house and fall for girls like her (for more than a YEAR, she thinks mockingly) are not supposed to have the whole school clapping for them.

They're meant to _laugh_ at him.

Quick, white-hot anger slices through Rose, but she ignores it, because there's absolutely no fucking reason she should even care.

Why does she want to cause him so much pain, anyway? She hates the whole world and she'd rather start there, than with some silly little boy who would mean nothing once dead.

"Great game, Scorpius," the Ravenclaw Quidditch Captain (good with his tongue, but got a small cock, Rose recalls) shakes his hand and smiles, a rare-spotted event. "I didn't know you could play like that."

Scorpius bumps his fist in one of the most pathetic attempts at masculinity Rose has ever seen. "Me neither, dude."

Dude.

She snorts to herself.

This little...thing will be over before she knows it. Soon they'll be back to treating him like a loser.

She'll be back to forgetting about him; in fact, she had entirely omitted his name from her mind before the match happened.

Two things are proved that day: one being that Hogwarts is incredibly fickle and two being that Quidditch has the power to change lives and make - she sighs greatly at this one, it's a real kicker, trust us - certain students _popular_.

/

\- three -

(this is how things go: rose is a jealous bitch.

everything has to be hers. _hers_. **hers**. she wants it. all of it. the whole fucking moon and the stars, e-v-e-r-y-t-h-i-n-g. understand?

here's the thing, she clicks her teeth together and grins, _she doesn't share. )_

/

Oh, we've simply _got_ to tell you about Lara Parker.

She's pretty, you know, blonde hair in ringlets, makes the boys stare, a bit too pink, perhaps, all sugar-sweet and perky and fucking hell, Rose thinks she's the worst bitch she's maybe ever seen.

Lara likes to act innocent, like she's seven and a bit, like she doesn't know what's what and maybe she needs a big, strong man to show her.

Out of male presence, it's catty laughs and shitty gossip that Rose has to endure, as a fellow female member of fifth-year Ravenclaw.

("Rose," she says, in that fake-american drawl, "I love your hair today."

And her friends all titter, like they think Rose

doesn't understand she's being made fun of, oh no, she's too messed up for that.

Her most common response is "fuck off," with a stark red blush that makes her grit her teeth and think about murder, but occasionally it's just her middle finger, because she can't be bothered to argue.

"Um, Rose," Lara's shocked, now, all religious and shit, good little catholic witch-bitch that she is, "I was just complimenting you. I don't think you need to use that language. It _offends_ me."

They all nod and gasp, because she's a little heathen, that Rose Weasley, like something out of The Craft, except that they're all witches here and this is an almost weekly event, so they should be used to it and Lara should probably come up with more fucking original insults.)

And you'll never guess, you never will! Or you might, because it's quite predictable, really; where the light is, the moth follows, but they're dating! Lara and Scorpius - dating!

/

"You're dating _Lara_?" Rose laughs, high and shrill, beautiful in it's own haunting way, mocking and sarcastic. "_Her_?"

He looks confused. They haven't spoken in a while, after all, not since she told him to fuck right off out of her bed, but he's still in love with her, she knows, she's seen him staring in lessons and that's the way it should be, really.

They're in the moonlight now, met up on a stairwell in the dead of night (this, she imagines, is how Romeo and Juliet would do it, if Juliet were a crazy desperate slut) and they're arguing, romantic, isn't it?

"I thought you - " poor thing, honestly, thinks he's in with a chance - no, she doesn't want him, or anything, it's just to wipe the smirk off that fucking bitch's face - "I thought that you didn't like me."

She rolls her eyes, because he's so naive, and why, why doesn't he get it yet? It's all a game, she wants to shout, it's better fun with more players. But she doesn't. "I don't," Rose tells him, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world, "but - "

He's closing in now, like he's about to kiss her. No, no, it's too familiar, you see, Rose isn't used to this, so she pulls away, attacks his neck with her lips, the way she's done so often before.

"You're _mine_," she hisses, sucking in a breath, and she hates him, she hates him, she _hates him_, she really does. "_Mine_."

What can she say? She's _awfully_ possessive.

She slams him against the wall. Did it hurt? She hopes so, but he doesn't seem to mind, not now she's clawing at him, seems quite fond of it, actually. Scorpius is making a mistake, of course, but, she giggles, who is she to stop him?

Rose rearranges her collection. Puts him back in, proudly. He's in prime position, _look_! Right at the centre, with all her other playthings, place of honour.

She's got them all dangling on puppet-strings, they're a _great_ source of amusement.

But he's - well, _he's_ her favourite.

/

\- four -

(this is how things go: they sneak off together when nobody is watching. she says _nobody_ with unease, because somebody is always watching, they live in a wrecked world where nothing is hidden, but they have not caught anybody yet, if there is.

in the daytimes, he plays the part of lara's toy. she drapes herself over his lap in full view of the hall. whispers - no doubt, dirty, as dirty as lara fucking parker can get - things into his ear and watches him squirm.

lara calls him her boyfriend and it makes rose laughs until her ribs are sore.

she wonders why he doesn't just dump her. but, she supposes, people have to keep up appearances.

during the night, he is hers.

actually, he is hers always. but especially when it is pitch-black and they are alone. she interests him, she knows. he loves her. but she also makes him scream.

makes him cry out. makes him do _badbadwrong_ things that sweet little boys like scorpius malfoy should not be doing. it's fun; turning him dark. it's even more fun when they play their little games.

she wins, of course, she always wins.)

/

She's happy again, now, if only briefly - these mood-swings, they come and they go, gosh it's terrible, but it doesn't matter, not now, at least she's _floating_, actually, oh, is there any other way to describe it?

Things are in place. She likes it when they're in place.

So Rose goes to the library – she hasn't been for a while, got to keep the mind sharp - all the way to the Restricted Section (she's got a note from her mother, she can read what she wants) and picks up a book.

It's funny how Uncle Harry doesn't ever talk about exactly how he defeated Lord Voldemort.

They're called horcruxes, and, she laughs, they're completely _pointless_. Who the fuck wants to live forever? Rose wouldn't want to suffer through another eternity of this, _this_ aimless wandering, on a road to nowhere, to nothing.

No, they're not interesting - of course not - but you know what just might be?

The book talks about Deathly Hallows and Rose thinks - _maybe _\- she's found a reason to live.

/

They go home for the summer.

Rose is away from her...friends, of course, but she doesn't mind for some strange reason that nobody can quite put their finger on.

"Uncle Harry," she says demurely, all butter-wouldn't-melt, "tell the story of how you saved the world again? Please?"

See, she's remembering her manners. What a good girl. They all think that, you see, except her mother (well, she's not around to tell, either way!) about Rose. Sweet little innocent thing.

Her OWL results came last week. _All Os, even better than her mother! Must be working hard, bless her._

He obliges, even if he doesn't like to - no, he's not a bragger, Uncle Harry, he prefers the quiet life while Rose longs to be famous - launches into the whole goddamn thing, not much of it that there is (that's her little joke, he laughs at that one) and it takes him an hour, but she listens to it all.

Well. Some parts, anyway. She skips the blubbering about his friends; Uncle Fred (does he count as an uncle if he's six feet under?) and Dobby and Sirius Black and whoever fucking else. No, she saves the important parts for later, savours them on her tongue.

In her mind, there is ticking and whirring and Rose is coming up with a plan, but we'll leave that part for now, won't we? It's better, later, you'll see.

Fine. We'll let you have a little bit, just now, just to keep you going, keep you guessing. Have you already?

"Albus," she says, and he's grinning, because they know each other, they _know_ and he's clever, is Albus, not quite as much as her, mind you, "can I borrow your invisibility cloak?"

And Rose begins her _new_ collection.

/

When her nights are not dreamless, they are filled with vivid horror entwined with sex, murder and violence mixed in with the way - god, the _way_ \- it feels to be fucked.

There's one (oh, she likes this one!) where it's her and Scorpius and she has a shiny, shiny knife with a silvery-sharp blade. It plunges into his stomach and there is blood, of course, because Rose likes the blood; vividly red, flowing and humming like a river.

There are a lot like that, but they aren't the best, no, not by a long shot. We haven't told you about the other ones. She keeps those to herself. Close by her heart, makes it sing whenever she's upset.

Oh, go on. We'll let you in on the secret.

She flips the switch and it's the other way round, now, he has a rusty gun and a predatory grin. It clicks and whirs, he laughs (that innocent way he does, because he is, innocent, he's the most innocent person she's ever known) and the gun growls with anger.

Scorpius points the gun at her. Locks and loads. His fingers tremble on the trigger.

And -

_And - _

Rose wakes up with a smile.

/

\- five -

(this is how things go: her first potions lesson in sixth year is with the hufflepuffs. which means _him_. it always means him.

their topic? she laughs to herself at it. love potions. as if she'd need one of _them_. they're already under her spell.

amortentia, specifically, the most powerful one of all. "give it a sniff," slughorn - decrepit, ancient, probably not been fucked in about a hundred years - says to them, "see what's in there."

rose loiters at the back. to be honest, she doesn't really want to know. or

maybe she does. curiosity killed the cat. or so they say.

scorpius is first. after a few seconds he turns snow-white, gives a strangled cough and an awkward glance in her direction. the boy - amongst other things - lacks subtlety. nuance. poor bugger, she thinks, but she is also proud. sort of.

she leans her head into the cauldron. it isn't scorpius, no, she's familiar enough with him to know that he smells like cologne. and occasionally chocolate. rose hates chocolate. she hates scorpius. why would she smell him in amortentia?

The cauldron stinks of smoke and ash. leaking petrol. blood.

reluctantly, she comes up for breath. she doesn't know what that was. so she leaves it alone.)

/

He's going to say something big. She can tell. His shoulders are straight and his mouth is bobbing like a goldfish. See? She can read him like a book. Open him up and tip all the secrets out.

Jesus. He's not going to drop the l-word, is he? Not that one, the other one. Fuck. She doesn't want to stand around and listen to this.

"Lara..." it's quite possible that this is the worst beginning to a sentence ever, "wants to um, you know..."

Rose is oblivious, completely, but she's always liked her words to be direct. Unambiguous. Scorpius doesn't fall into that category, what with his stutter and his murmur, the way he skips around words.

One, two, three and it falls in place.

"Fuck, Scorpius," she gives a laugh and her eyes shine and spark in the darkness, "you can't even say it? I thought you were more corrupted than that. I'm disappointed."

He gives a faint pink blush and this, this is what she adores about him. "I don't know - "

"Did you think we were _exclusive_?" She's still laughing. It's almost manic now. "_Destined_ to be together? I've been screwing half of Slytherin, Scorpius, in all this time we've been together."

Anger flashes through him for the first time since, oh, she doesn't know when! She likes this, doesn't she, him all worked up and flustered, instead of her. Violent.

He's all _deliciously_ tainted now, her little Hufflepuff Scorpius, she ruined him with her pointy words and pretty-pink mouth, god, it's enthralling to watch. Darkness worms it's way into light.

He's just like his father. The words, they burn in the back of her brain, throb, throb, _throb_ with sickly pleasure. Draco Malfoy. She never met him, but, she thinks, she would simply love him if she did.

He grabs her arm and holds it tight, like he doesn't want to let go. Rose's mouth spreads into a thick, malicious smile.

"See?" She's kissing him now, but he's still refusing to release his grip. It hurts. It hurts, digs into her skin and it's beautiful, really, beautiful. "It's more fun this way."

/

"You're Rose Weasley." The blonde's mouth curls into a knowing smirk. "Aren't you?"

Hidden behind glaringly red lipstick and a put-on air of emptyheadedness; there is a sense of shrewdness within the woman. With wit perhaps concealed by white-blonde hair and obvious work done on the forehead.

The face itself is, unfortunately, instantly recognisable to many.

"And you're Rita Skeeter," Rose sticks out her hand with a charming smile, "it's such a pleasure to meet you."

All that time she had wasted, thinking Slughorn's Christmas Party was going to be _boring_!

He had invited her without question, as an 'ardent admirer' of her parents and also herself. "_Rose_," he likes to profess, so often she's sick of hearing it, "_your paper on Amortentia was simply genius. Genius! Perhaps even beyond NEWT Level work, I'm sure. You're a very capable young girl, just as your mother was_ \- "

That's when she stops listening. Praise only ever seems to lead in that direction and it does get tiresome after a while.

She smooths down her dress (black, lacy, with some odd resemblance to a spider and covering far too little) as the man himself comes rushing over, clearly desperate to talk.

"Rose," he says, pink in the face from a bit too much wine, "don't you want to talk to Mr. Ashcroft? He runs an underground alchemy place in London...all very top-secret, hush-hush...for the, erm, Ministry, you know and I think he might consider employing you after Hogwarts. It's very professional, quite an outstanding place, really, I think you'd fit in quite well..."

He trails off, finally noticing Rita, whose eyebrow is raised dangerously high. "Oh. Miss, erm, Skeeter. I didn't see you there, hiding behind Miss Weasley here! Perhaps you would be interested in the cheese table...? I'd be happy to show you - "

"Sir," Rose cuts him off politely because manners are awfully crucial, even if patience is wearing thin, "I'm actually in a conversation with Miss Skeeter here. I'll talk to Mr. Ashcroft later. He does seem quite enchanted by the band right now. If that's okay with you."

He looks taken aback. "Oh," he says. "Oh, of course."

She waves him off quickly before turning back to her companion with a strange sort of eagerness. "I read your book on my uncle."

Rita hitches her glasses slightly higher up her nose. If there's worry in her face, she hides it well. "And? What did you think?"

"I loved it," Rose confesses, pleasant expression not changing, "it was a marvellous piece of work. Quite scandalous, but I thought that made it even better. I'm a fan. Honestly."

There's a shocked look upon her face. "Really? All of it?" It's not, Rose supposes, that Rita doubts herself. It's that there are certain things in there she wouldn't exactly count on a Weasley to ignore. "Are you sure?"

"There were...factual innacuracies." Rose lets out a small chuckle. The one about her Aunt Ginny being addicted to alcohol? Hilarious! Simply _gold_! "But they have those in every book, don't they?"

Rita grins in an almost lascivious way and seizes up her prey. "Interesting point of view." She leans closer. No regard for personal space, apparently. "Tell me Rose, is there anything you want me to know about? Anything at all?"

Rose's attention has flitted. Across the hall stands Scorpius Malfoy with his date: a puffed-up princess version of Lara Parker. She lets her gaze flicker back, allows herself to recall the question.

"Oh, Rita," she gives that award-winning grin, "I've got a dozen stories or so to tell you. But," her voice drops to a whisper, "I don't think my mother would like it very much at all."

All truth, of course. Hermione wouldn't, not the slightest bit, which is why Rose has every intention of letting Rita Skeeter drill into their family and dig up all the layers of dirt. It'll be quite amusing.

"We'll do this again sometime," Rose tells her earnestly, "I'm rather engaged with some particular theories in your book. For now, I think I'm obliged to talk to a couple of old codgers. Got to make my millions somehow!"

Rita Skeeter's quill flies as high as her eyebrows as the girl walks out of the room and as far away from Mr. Ashcroft as possible.

/

"I like your dress," he says as they lie there in the aftermath.

She is still. He is fidgeting, a bit.

They do not touch.

If she shifts, a broomstick will be lodged in her back. It's not a euphemism. They're in a broom closet. She thinks: _how darlingly quaint_, but doesn't say anything of it. Scorpius doesn't like it when she's sarcastic. He likes her happy and soppy and pretending to love him.

"I wore it for Francis Corner."

She wishes she had a cigarette now, to display her apathy, but the angry (also: jealous and magically sorrowful) look on his face quite pulls the whole thing off nicely.

Francis is some other boy she likes to take to town. Scorpius doesn't mind. That's what he tells her. He lies.

Rose shrugs her shoulders; bare and pale. "It's better than Lara's," she scoffs, scrunching her eyes and imagining the abomination, "I suppose."

Scorpius laughs a little, then tenses. "Don't be so mean."

Of course. Mollycoddling the girlfriend. Back to daily routines!

Scorpius needs a real relationship. To keep him going. Keep him loved. He wants to know why they don't cuddle afterwards, why he's not allowed to whisper sweet words into her forehead and call her sickly sweet names. Why? Why? Because Rose doesn't do that shit, not at all, not ever. She won't let herself. She won't. She won't-won't-_won't_.

(but also: she can't)

She pulls her knickers back on.

They don't speak after that.

/

The tides change and the waves crash against the rocks and Rose is sad again.

Her plan isn't coming into action (she's still missing pieces, you understand, valuable, important objects she can't do without) and Lara Parker is on the up and up and _up_ and the leglimency isn't going as well, no, no it's not and oh -

It's one of those weeks, you know. One of those weeks where she wants to _burnburnburn_ everything to dust. But she soldiers on.

She's fine, you see, she's _fine_, wasting away more and more time with Scorpius (he worries, about her, sometimes, what a darling little boy he is!) and she's getting thinner - _those_ _cheekbones_! they say and do not care about her health - but she's fine.

Who are you, her mother? That'd be the day - she's never there, not ever, but she'll be minister of magic soon, just _look_!

They fuck in a bed, her and Scorpius and he tries to hold her hand.

She shows him her wrists, proudly, the scars, all red and bloody and raw from where she scratched away the skin.

They sting in the shower, but they're quite alright. They mark the changing times. She's not ashamed; he's just the only person she's ever shown because, well. Well.

Nobody accepted Van Gogh, at first. They thought he was mad. They think that about Rose now.

He recoils in horror, of course he does, because he doesn't understand, nobody does, they don't, they don't, they don't! Not even him, not even him and she was so fucking stupid, so foolish thinking he would, that he would know, because he's just a toy, you see, just a toy, a toy, a _toy_ -

"Rose," he says softly and he takes her hand, but oh, she doesn't like it when he's gentle, he already knows that, "Rose, you need to get help."

Help! _Help_! Like she's fucking insane, like she's messed up, or something. He doesn't care about her, of course he doesn't, otherwise he would be revelling in this discovery and giggling along with her.

"No," she tells him and she's laughing again, really laughing, "Scorpius, I need you to do something for me."

"Anything." He means it. She can tell. The worry on his face is sickening. "I love you."

She doesn't say it back. She never says it back.

/

\- six -

(this is how things go: it takes him a while to find it. of course. it's just a fucking rock. there are thousands in the forbidden forest.

but he's under her spell, figuratively, because rose doesn't need magic to make the boys trip and fall. especially scorpius. he's already over the cliff and crashed into the rocks.

oh, scorpius. she feels sorry for him, really. she'll let him live, once she rules the world. that's what she's going to do. take over. make things better. then maybe she'll die, finally. peaceful. knowing they will recall her face, they will quote her words.

she will not be written off as just another suicide.

they'll remember her name. definitely.

there's one more piece left in the jigsaw puzzle. she's saving that for last. the plan doesn't come into action yet. not until she hits graduation.

why? we don't know. see, we're not inside her head. we just tell the story the way it was.

but prepare for a bang. or a whimper. it's all the same, really.)

/

She opens it up, of course she does, she likes to play around where she's not wanted. Messing with fate is so perfectly her. It all seems to fall together piece by piece.

Rose isn't stupid though, she understands that she can't bring anyone back permanently (they're hollow shells, the resurrections, fragmented souls of who they used to be) she's read the original tale, of Cadmus Peverell and his long-dead lover.

She likes how it ends. Noose around his neck and stone fallen from his fingers.

There's something so delicious about _necks_ (they're a recurring motif in her oh-so-_dull_ life) that she considers hanging as her final farewell.

Too typical, she thinks. Moves on.

"As payment," she says, tosses it to him with a smile and a smack of the lips, "give it back, though."

He turns it over in his hands and look at that, he's nervous, bless him, he always is. "What does it do?"

"Brings back the dead," it's offhand, flippant, but he gasps at her words anyway like it's some great magical feat. It's not, honestly, Rose has been learning about inferi and god, they're far more fun.

But, she supposes, for someone who doesn't like dark magic and playing in the shadows, it's probably mildly impressive. One of the hallows, that's what she's concerned with. "A form of it, anyway."

He looks at her and he is sunlight (brilliant, dazzling, too good and pure for her presence) blinding her eyes and putting her in a spin, so effortlessly good it makes her want to throw up. "Why do you want this, Rose? Why do you do this?"

"What can I say, baby?" Her lips quirk up in a smile and she tosses her head back on the pillow, suddenly sick of his constant negativity. "I was born to be bad."

/

Scorpius is a liability.

But getting rid of him - oh, you'll see, it's going to be _fun!_

She is outstretched on the sofa in the Ravenclaw Common Room when it happens, flipping through a magazine. They're far too dull, nowadays, all 'perfect potions for your hair' and never 'how to fuck someone and then kill them.' Boring, boring, boring. Rose likes the colours though. Black is in this season. Red is too.

"Finally," she lifts her head out of the paper and looks at Lara Parker, eyes gleaming with mirth, "I've been waiting for you to walk in all night."

The girl shuts the door behind her and thank god, her little friends are there with her too. _How perfectly fabulous_! "What?"

"I've been fucking your boyfriend," Rose says casually, examining her nails for dirt (it gets trapped in the cracks sometimes, a dreadful bother) and barely glancing up from 'top ten witches to watch out for,' "most nights, occasional break."

They're in shock, wonderful, miraculous shock. Watching Lara with those pretty little faces poised in surprise and anticipation. Lapping it all up.

Fickle things, aren't they?

Lara gives a strangled laugh. "Fuck you, Weasley. Very funny."

"Yeah it is, actually." She could make the joke (fuck you, haha, don't you get it?) but she's too superior for that. Too mature. It's all a game, haven't you worked that out by now? "Don't you believe me, Lara?"

The girl goes bright red. With anger, or embarrassment, Rose can't tell and she can't be bothered to try to. "I know you're a fucking slut," Rose rolls her eyes at this and wonders where the 'innocent five-year-old' act went, "but Scorpius loves me. He told me so the other day."

This takes Rose back a little (because he's not supposed to love Lara, he's supposed to love her, her, her) but she throws it off with ease. "Go ask him yourself if you don't believe me."

"I will," Lara replies, but her lower lip is trembling and they know the truth.

They all know the truth.

/

Rose wakes up in a scattered pile of her own hair.

She grasps at it and whimpers. What was there is shorn off, a mess of red fanned out around her as if it is blood, a jagged, haphazard line through what is left. A pair of dull scissors by her bed, placed symbolically, deliberately.

There is a potion to remedy it, of course. It will be the same in the morning, but this is an act of revenge, of warfare and it shall be treated as such.

'Brutal,' she thinks sarcastically, though she is angry. Angrier than you'd know. Oh, no, but the rage fades and she is calm again! Calm, calm, she will not react. It will be alright, she will not react.

She will brew the potion. Drink it. She'll go down to breakfast and Lara's hands will shake and she will sob (again) because her darling boyfriend is an adulterer.

Who fucked a nutjob. Rose will laugh. Because it is funny.

And Rose will wait.

And in the depths of night, Rose will think of murder.

(but most of all, she will think of how blood flows and how she loves it, more than anything)

/

\- seven -

(this is how things go: lara breaks things off with scorpius. scorpius breaks things off with rose. "fucking her was like literally fucking the devil," he tells his friends with the easy breath of a free man. kind of.

she's still got a stake through his heart and she's clenching on tight. won't let go. he's trying.

they all laugh at his joke. rose laughs too. it's funny, isn't it? everything's funny.

they call her slut now. whore, too. she brushes it off. albus hexes them for her. he's all she's got left, really, now that everybody hates her. boys won't fuck her anymore. hugo is firmly on the side of the men at hogwarts. cousin lily always hated her. Cousin lily is a bitch.

her parents - ron, mostly, but hermione's signed her name - have sent her letters about her 'behaviour.' they think she's a slut too. look at that. lara's turned not just the whole fucking school against her, but everyone else too.

she shuts her ears - screams, a little - muffles her head with her pillow and rests. burns. fizzles out like a flame.

rose is a rubber band.)

/

They graduate. Sing the Hogwarts song. She smokes cigarettes behind the Quidditch Pitch with Albus and skips the whole fucking thing.

Her NEWTS were the best in the year and they asked her to give a speech. Rose couldn't be bothered, so they shook their heads sympathetically and let it all be.

She's just this tragic little slut, now, except she hasn't been fucked, in, god, ages, 'all dried up and used,' they say, when she's not listening, except she is, she's always listening. That's kind of the way it is.

"Fuck'em," Albus says, puffing his cigarette, but his eyes are misty and he's got a vague sense of sorrow about him, "I wish they were all dead, anyway."

Rose stares into the distance. The sun is hitting her back, leaving spots of uncomfortable warmth that she can't be bothered to move away from. "I guess," her voice trips and falters in the pale space between them, "I guess that could be arranged."

"What are you planning?" He sounds interested. Maybe scared. "Something big?"

She grins. Shakes the hair (reddish-blondish, but she's thinking of dying it black - for individuality, or something) out of her face, turns towards him. "Yeah, I suppose."

"Tell me about it," he stretches out his legs and looks over towards the last remnants of graduation. "I want in."

Should she? Oh, what do you think, should she? He does love - doesn't he? (she dove into his mind, the head boy broke his heart to pieces) and that could be an obstacle.

It always seems to be, anyway, and telling people comes with it's own risks. She wouldn't want details to be shared, after all, anything to leak into the masses.

Then again. He is her cousin. He's stuck by her. If she were to trust - (she doesn't, she swears, not after last time!) it would be him, Albus, who despises life with almost as fiery a passion as she does.

"Go on then," she licks her lips, bites her tongue as if blood will trickle from it, "we'll give it a go."

/

"Have you ever done it?"

He's anxious, she can tell. She is too, a little bit, but that's mostly just butterflies mixed with a wild thump of excitement. Her heart is racing, her palms are sweaty. It's a little like love, she thinks, what she's heard of it, anyway.

"No," she could have lied, but there would have been no practical point to that, "but I've read about it."

Lots and lots. Whispered the words. Let them drip off of her tongue. There's nothing clinical to it (she thinks dreamily sometimes, that this is where Voldemort went wrong) it's passion, in it's deepest form and perhaps she's found her new form of sex.

She has to try it, to tell.

"Rose," he says, looking as if he's about to be sick, "are you sure about this?"

Doubts, doubts, of course Albus has doubts! He's not brave and bold and smart like her, he feels the things everyone else feels, the tiny pitter patter in his heart and screech of caution in his brain. No matter how much he tries, it'll be there.

Forever.

Rose has mastered shutting it out and stopping the light bouncing through the holes; maybe he should too, but she doesn't suggest it, only nods her head in affirmatively and moves an inch to the left.

The alleyway is dark, almost empty, save few on their way to work, but if you squint, dear, you can spot the neighbourhood bitch passing through.

And this, this is why Rose steps out of the cloak. Points the wand at her target.

"_Avada Kedavra_," she says.

Lara Parker's body drops to the floor. Her hands twitch, blue eyes go vacant and then - gloriously, then - there is no more for her. She had given no haunting scream. Only accepted death as it was forced upon her.

It's almost just like Rose imagined.

(the world falls in reverse)

/

The house creaks and groans, but she's not scared. She's not. She's not scared of anything at all.

Does murder crack the soul?

Rose supposes she didn't have one in the first place.

This will be their hiding place. Albus is upstairs now, pacing (he's always doing that, he's a bit of a worrier, really) and she's inspecting what the previous owner left behind.

A couple of trinkets, some money under the rug. They probably fled in a hurry.

Today's paper had it printed in black and white; Lara's lifeless face. Still, tranquil and probably, Rose laughs, the only time that bitch has ever shut the fuck up for more than two seconds, but god knows she respects the dead.

They don't know it's her, of course, they have no interest in suspecting relatives of the great Harry Potter, but they'll catch on soon enough.

That's why they're in the house, you understand, far enough away from civilisation that nobody will think to look when they work it out. Because they'll work it all out. They always do.

It's not as if she had much motive; that was the enjoyment in it, after all, but it's all so revenge-of-the-nerds-esque she's sure someone will catch on eventually and besides she's being watched, they're all watching her with their piercing eyes, looming over everything and everyone, watching, watching -

Don't _worry!_ She won't, she won't, she's not, not at all. She has a plan - you'll see - it's simply marvellous. It'll stop them. From ticking.

The game isn't up yet anyway, no, it's only just begun and Albus has to play his turn now. Unfurl his queen of hearts and show his best sport of it.

He won't win, no, she _always_ wins, but it'll be thrilling to witness, perhaps, if he doesn't get too cowardly and break off the whole thing, which she hopes he doesn't. Where's the fun in that?

"Rose," he had said, "I don't think I can do this."

But she had urged him on and he had conceded. Realised she was right and agreed to give it a try.

Rose thinks he'll love it.

She knows she did.

/

The potion is dark and thick. Drips like the back of Rose's mind, down the gutter and through the peep-hole. Are we rambling now? Oh, we do apologise.

She just _adores_ it, even if isn't as good as a wand and two words. Potions, potions, Rose has always liked them; magically fluorescent and fantastically powerful.

But they're _definitely_ Albus' strong suit.

Draught of living death. He stoppers it up with a gold cap and taps it twice with his fingers. "I loved him," he whispers, eyes hard, examining it like a true alchemist would - devoid of emotion - "and he fucked her."

"Well," Rose says, bored, "that's how the story goes."

They deliver the package - caramel chocolates, his favourites, according to Albus - and wait for the impact. She buys fish and chips. He taps his foot. It's a real family bonding experience.

Then look, they've made front-page news again, because he was someone important, apparently, the nephew of someone somewhat-famous and it's all in colour this time - they paid the extra, to celebrate! - his blood-red face, the tinge of blue to his lips, everything.

Nobody's linked it up yet. Connected the dots and found that

they're related, but she's sure it's only time.

Two people from the same year at Hogwarts? Why she should have never picked motives, darlings, but what can you do?

They will, soon enough.

Rose'll be ready for them. Can't you tell?

She's _raring_ to go.

/

\- eight -

(this is how things go: they figure it out quickly. they're smart. they're wizards, aren't they? they take blood samples and trace wands and it all points back to her. her and albus.

rose is two steps ahead. her father taught her chess. muggle and wizard. black hair, new name. esther. it's the main character in the bell jar. she tried to slit her wrists. they gave her electric shocks to cure the pain.

sometimes rose wonders if electric shocks would make her better. or if it's all a state of mind. state of place.

albus is edgar. after poe. rose likes that one about the beating heart. she thinks they'll re-enact it some day.

their cover-story is that they're brother and sister. he would've made good brother, she supposes, better than hugo anyway. less with the quidditch. more with the brutal slaughter of innocents. more fun.

they flee the country with a stolen portkey. all the way into france. then germany. then russia. it's a murder tour all over the world.

she kills a muggle president. it's quite anarchist, actually. symbolic. albus likes to play with prisoners. because they always deserve it, he says. rose might believe him.

he plays with men too. rose keeps away. she's still got an inkling of loyalty. towards all the dolls she left behind. particularly her favourite. not that he cares.

albus doesn't either. that's what she quite admires about him.

their parents release statements. They want them to come home. harry potter, all things good and light, just wants his murderer son and his pure-evil niece to come home. hermione granger will prosecute her own daughter, the papers say, as if they didn't already know.

ron doesn't know how they got this way. they were good kids. so they say.

scorpius isn't on the news. she wishes he would be. she misses the way his

hair fell over his face. oh, and how he used to choke her when they fucked.

the way she made him. she built him to be good. better than good. she moulded him into the perfect plastic doll.

she's never going back though. it's far too risky. besides, she's having a laugh. moving from place to place. it's quite refreshing. she's having a hell of a time.)

/

Rose has been studying.

She always was rather bright. They thought she'd put that to use with medicine, or politics like her mother. They never dreamt up the scenario where she would be using her gift for murder. It came as a bit of a surprise, she supposes, but she does find it quite amusing.

'Sectumsempra' she tries on someone unimportant (the Minister of Magic for Romania, something trivial like that) and is delighted with it's results. Fatality. Mortality. Blood wounds that gush and curl and send shivers down her spine.

Albus' mouth twists into a dark grimace of a smile. "Severus Snape for you."

She laughs. "I can see why they named you after him."

What she doesn't tell Albus is that she's been playing around a lot. Messing with dark curses. She's up to fifty-three ways to kill someone.

That's only magically, of course. She does understand the entertainment of a knife. The slow droplets, then the trickle, then the slash and bash and fun part.

But there are secrets hidden within magic, secrets she's sure she's the first to discover, besides perhaps the goblins who safe-keep the wonders of the universe and keep them - cruelly, selfishly - to themselves.

Rose is powerful. Her wand is a shovel (she is, she imagines, the next greatest architect, explorer of her time) and she digs, digs, digs. Into things she shouldn't have.

Ancient texts. They take a while to decipher - she hides them under her robes and keeps them close to heart, but they're important. Brilliant. What we have to talk to you, about, really, so remember it, remember this part. For later. For the fun part. We're not going to spoil it, just yet.

Maybe you've already figured it out. It's quite easy, really, just put together all the clues, add up all those little hints we dropped nicely and find out Rose's happy ending.

Have you guessed it yet? We think you can, if you try that extra special bit. Have you worked it out?

It's a cliff.

Jump.

/

She's got blood on her hands.

Figuratively, of course, Rose likes to keep things neat. Perks of being a wizard, honestly, the lack of clean-up.

Oh, don't be so _dull_! It's always people who deserve it: the rapists; the misogynists; the ones who tie their laces too tight; the ones with push but no shove - the list is endless and exasperatingly bizarre but she loves it like a child.

Murder is a sin, but immorality is an art form, darlings, understand?

They've hung her image up in the streets of about seven countries. Under the shadow of WANTED: ROSE WEASLEY, FOR CRIMES AGAINST THE GOVERNMENT. It used to be 'UNDESIRABLE' and then a number, during the war. She remembers her father's stories. She misses him, sometimes, but if she went back -

Well. She was raised in a family of war heroes. It's not as if they'd value family over honour, is it?

Albus plays his part as sidekick, (though he's proved himself repeatedly, maybe she'll promote him to partner) with the devilish smirk and the brilliant alchemy, oh, they've killed more than you'd know, by now, Ministry Officials too.

He's wanted too, but for less, there's a reward, you see, quite hefty for her head on a silver platter. No, no, that's an exaggeration - they want her alive, because she's Harry Potter's niece, Hermione Granger's daughter, all that bullshit.

Hasn't hurt her mother's political campaign, surprisingly, she's doing quite well - on her way to being elected Minister of Magic!

Maybe Rose will pay her a visit when it happens. What a pleasant idea that is, indeed! Oh, and, you know, you know (of course you'll _want_ to, that's why we're going to tell you!) who they've employed? As an intern?

Nobody but her favourite. Her darling little Scorpius Malfoy, working for the government and the law, the ones who are out to skin her alive.

She'd be quite enthralled if he tried to do it himself, actually. What a wondrous thought. It almost inspires chills, don't you agree?

Yes, she thinks, she's changed her mind. Home is where the heart is. That's what they say and perhaps, perhaps they're right. There's still the dreadful bother of that jigsaw piece, after all, she has to fit it into her puzzle to make things alright. She'll swing by her Uncle's house, get it done quick and then it'll be playtime again.

No brave and bold pastures new, no, Rose belongs in _England_!

/

"Uncle Harry," all the blood seems to drain from his face. She jabs her wand closer to his neck. "I think you understand - "

He was all alone in his little house. She had to take advantage.

"Don't kill him," Albus had said worriedly. "He's my dad."

How sweet. How darling. Familial connection.

"I won't," she had promised and Rose, well, Rose isn't good at keeping promises, but she'll try this time, honest.

"I know what you're doing." He sounds sorrowful. Pitiful - like he gives a _shit_ about her! As if he cares, as if she's someone to feel sorry for! No, no, she's on top of the world, living the life of riley, however else the story goes. "I'm so sorry Rose."

There they are! The words she's longed to hear for years. Sorry, sorry, for what? She was raised well, taught to be polite, in a household of calm and quiet; her mother was absent but maybe that was a good thing. Nothing happened! Nothing, nothing at all! She's the way she is because she is, no deep childhood trauma behind it whatsoever.

It's not nurture, she thinks, it's nature.

"Uncle Harry," she repeats condescendingly, wand twirling around a throbbing vein, "some people are just fucking _evil_."

He laughs at that one, but it's still got that irritating note of sympathy to it. "You realise you'll never be immortal."

She tips her head back and gives a deep, throaty chuckle. Wrong, wrong, wrong. Heroes always think it's about them. They never seem to learn from their mistakes.

Rose isn't Voldemort. It's why she's so fucking _brilliant_.

"You think I give a shit about that?"

He closes his eyes. He's waiting for death, she can tell, she knows the look off by heart. His heart is pounding. Blood is pumping.

He's excited for it, excited, she can tell, that familiar feeling when it's so close to your grip, almost there, almost there -

"I'm going to make this fair," she shoves him off her. "I'm going to give you your wand - look, I've got it here in my pocket, I'm getting it out."

She puts it in his hands. He's quivering.

"That's right," he's turning to face her, preparing to cast a spell, oh, she's got to be quick about this! "Expelliarmus!"

The wand clatters to the floor. Should do the trick, shouldn't it? He scrambles to pick it up, but she's far too fast for him, already out the kitchen door and into the hall. She scrambles past the coats and makes her way to the doorway.

"Remember," she gives a giggle as she runs, "it's my mother's election result today. Do wear a suit. I think the party's going to be great."

She shuts the door on her way out.

/

"One more stop," she calls, lets her voice reverberate, "then we'll join the festivities, I swear."

They crack out of existence and reappear quite suddenly in what seems to be the middle of nowhere.

"Where the fuck are we?" Albus cranes his head and looks all around. Then: a cluster of buildings, faintly in the distance but still obvious to the human eye. "Is this Hogsmeade?"

Rose glances at her watch impatiently. "Hurry," she says, pulling the cloak over them, eyes directly ahead, "we don't much time. Your father's pretty smart. He'll work it out."

She lets a smile crack through her face, tugging the darkness from her cheeks. "Besides. The Ministry's party is in an hour or so. I want to find out the election result."

She pauses. "And have a little fun, of course."

They begin to run.

"You see," she cries gleefully from underneath the cloak, "it's all there in the book! The _stupid fucking amazing_ book!"

He huffs as he tries to catch up with her and keep the invisibility cloak from getting caught between their feet. "What book? Rose, you're not making any sense."

It's no point. She's euphoric, caught up in her own madness. He doesn't understand, of course he does, nobody does, but she's almost there, almost, almost, almost -

/

\- nine -

(this is how things go: the year is nineteen-ninety-nine.

rita skeeter sits down to write a book.

she bites her quill. thinks of a title. "_the boy who lived: a biography_," she captions. it's alright. she'll improve on it later.

the interviews she gets. on rare occasions. harry potter - actually talking with her! he did before, she supposes, but he wasn't popular then. he hadn't defeated voldemort. voldemort!

what a feat! her book will sell like...god, hotcakes!

he seems busy. impatient. like he doesn't want to talk. of course he doesn't. he hates her, remember? but he's a polite man. he gives the facts. lays them all out in proper terms.

rita's never been amazingly clever, but she understands what deathly hallows are. yes, she understands, but they're trivial, compared to things like, oh, who he's sleeping with. his relationship with hermione granger. how he felt when he finally killed the dark lord - and does he realise this makes him a murderer? those are the sorts of things the readers enjoy.

anyway. she writes them into the book. whoever said she wasn't truthful? It fills the space, at least.

"_one can only speculate_," she scribbles, imagining herself as some great philosopher. an insight into the mind of harry potter, that's it! "_where the elder wand is now. his new lover ginny weasley, perhaps? with his rumoured ex-girlfriend hermione granger? ill-remembered best friend ronald weasley? dead mentor and guardian albus dumbledore? brief hogwarts fling cho chang?" _

read it? read it all? good.

we do hope you understand.)

/

\- eleven -

(this is how things go: the year is two-thousand-twenty-three.

not for the first time, a girl stumbles across a book in a library.

she does not expect it to be a good read. it is battered and worn and her father often complains about the writer. maybe that's why she opens it. it is mostly trash. it talks about her parents in a demeaning way. although, she revels in the parts about her mother; big-toothed, bushy-haired? it has her in stitches for hours!

there's a certain page she bookmarks. it's not important. not at first glance. it's filled with guesswork and shallow opinions. it's interesting though. thought-provoking, almost.

a lot of ideas swim around in this girl's head. but she's got this brilliant, amazing, wonderful one. she just can't shake it. and it's all thanks to some silly, frilly journalist. who the fuck knew?

the girl's name is rose weasley. trust us, she'll do great things. someday.)

/

Dumbledore's tomb.

It is not unlike her uncle to be sentimental.

Rose isn't. She takes no care in opening it. The lumbering, white coffin; so heavy she has to use 'alohamora' just to get it open. There's already a crack down the middle, from it's previous intruder.

She twiddles the wand in her fingers and finally - finally, the world is destructible.

"You did it," Albus breathes, "you - you're the Master of Death."

There's a certain extra requirement they didn't mention, one that many have failed at. Perhaps all except her uncle. And her, of course. Her addition to the list. It's going to be _trailblazing,_ trust me!

See, the rules go like this: to be the true Master of Death you have to accept your fate. Everyone's fate. A puff of white smoke and heaven or hell.

Uncle Harry had told her, once, when she had pried too far and poked at his suspicions. Nobody is immortal. Nobody, nobody, nobody. He had explained. How selfless he was, how he must've been! To play the puppet-strings of Death himself! He didn't think she could accomplish that feat. The tools, sure, but not the willingness, to end it all.

Uncle Harry was wrong. Misguided old fool! Thinking he knew her, thinking he understood!

Rose isn't immortal. She doesn't want to be.

She's spent her whole life waiting for the falling shadow to come and crash things down around her.

Rose pockets her new wand and smiles.

/

Spotlight: Rose Weasley. Emerging from the shadows like a butterfly from a cocoon. She's all grown up now, _look_!

The Wizenmagot gasp. Hold their hands to their faces, make those little swooning motions, all the stereotypical gestures she would expect from a bunch of utter morons.

Their scribe - a newly-appointed, handsome-as-ever Scorpius Malfoy - drops his quill. She considers sending him a flirty wave; perhaps a wink but thinks it would quite detract from the message she's trying to send.

She does it anyway. Nothing quite as intimidating as a sexually-confident female, especially to a bunch of old codgers.

"I would like - " she clears her throat politely as they draw out their wands, "oh, well, that's not very nice, is it?"

"Petrificus Totalus," she hums and waits for everybody in the room to freeze. Her mother's face has lost all of it's colour, _how beautiful_! Does she - don't say she finally cares? _How ridiculously amusing_!

She pauses. It's not like she's on a timed schedule, anyway. Plenty of room for the fun to last. "I would like...to cast a vote."

Rose turns her head to Albus, who is skulking in the shadows guiltily, and gives a grin. "Is this how it works? Or is there a ballot box? Anyway, after some consideration, I do think the candidacy of Minister for Magic should be awarded to - "

The drums aren't rolling. They are in her head.

"My dear old mother," she finishes, with mocking applause that rings through the otherwise quiet room, "I think you're all acquainted. Hermione Granger - whoops, sorry, Weasley."

Albus stands rooted to the ground. Cowardice in one of it's many forms; observe it, watch it change a darkened man. "Rose," the skeleton of his voice is ghostly, "Rose, I don't think I can do this."

The cat never did want to be caught.

"Get out," she says cheerfully, because he wasn't part of the next stage, anyway, he had no matter to this world and she barely even cared for him - "go back home."

She turns back to her audience. "I came to say goodbye," she admits, taking on a comically sad tone, "I'm sorry, everybody. Also," she whips her head back round, "I require one more thing."

Rose doesn't need Imperio. Scorpius comes willingly.

She takes him by the hand and they disappear into the darkness.

/

\- twelve -

(this is how things go: she deciphered the ancient texts.

they had it out quite simply. a recipe for disaster, to use an old joke: a woman - they emphasised this part, must have been important - of great power. an object of immeasurable potential. the song of the gods.

rose found that in romania. it's a cute little spell. she'll have fun reading it aloud.

and. last of all. a drop of lover's blood.

she's had a string of those.

but, she suspects, there's only one who's stayed true to heart.

how do we know this? we can't tell you. some things are secret. some things are beyond the mortal knowledge: muggle or wizard.

who are we? haven't you worked it out? we're fate, of course. we've watched the stars explode. we'll watch them again.

what is it going to do? we already told you. a bang. not a whimper. stop the world from spinning. rid her from the black. end days with her pure of heart and fire spread through the cities. she'll be good. like before.

she'll love, she'll love, she'll love. it'll be like nothing ever happened. no more black. no more darkness. nothing for anyone. no more sin, no more, no more, because they'll all be dead, dead, _dead_.

heaven, rose thinks, will be beautiful.)

/

There's a hill in Little Hangleton.

It's quite symbolic. That's why she chooses it.

Scorpius is disorientated. "Rose," he whispers, almost like he is asleep, like he is a child, "what's going on?"

She hushes him, then gives it some thought. "Why did you come with me?" It's an age-old question. She knows the answer, but she'd like it to fall from his lips one last time. "I'm a murderer."

With pride. Not for much longer. She'll be clean, soon, clean enough to love him. Properly, this time. With passion, with emotion, with all the things normal girls do. There's a reason she chose him. There's a reason. There's always a reason.

"I know," he says dizzily, "I'm - " he chases away the dust, "I'm sorry."

Sorry. For her. What must it be like to feel sympathy? Especially so strongly, so deeply; for a killer. A girl of sin. Sin and fire and skin and bone and she couldn't help it, she couldn't, she couldn't, the taste was too _sweet_ -

"Scorpius," she says and for the first time in her life she means his name, "so am I." Rose drags her wand across his hand and winces as the blood falls, because she doesn't like it when it's him. Not him. Anyone but him.

"It's a song," she tells him softly, as he starts to struggle, "but I'm not very good at singing."

He stops. Falls still, hangs his head and maybe, maybe he knows what's coming. If anyone could tell, it would be him; it would be Scorpius.

The world is quiet at night. Lonely.

Rose Weasley turns her head to the sky and casts the last spell.

/

(this is how things go: they come to an End.)

/

"Rose," he shakes his head, tears pooling in his eyes, "Rose, what did you do?"

She jolts. Turns to face him, lays her hands limply by her side and collapses to the floor. Shivering, she pulls her knees tight against her body, combs a hand through her tangles (she hasn't brushed her hair in days, maybe, she can't remember) and lets out nothing but a small squeak.

It's dawn, now. People - innocents, most of them - are waking up to the smell of fire and death, to destruction; hers.

Rose gives a tiny sob. A morsel of regret. Scorpius sits beside her, hand in hers for the last time, perhaps the first with any sort of meaning. He grips onto it too tight. The way he's always done.

He could kill her. It would be simple enough - she's weak now, after all; listless and still - but it wouldn't end it. Nothing could. He can smell the smoke rising; can taste the stars erupting in the fading night-sky; the dark clouds in a darker horizon forming like patchwork with her silvery-sharp needle at the hem.

Perhaps he's going mad. He wouldn't be the first.

Scorpius loved her, you know.

(rose weasley, destroyer of worlds, apocalypse-bringer, she was never his to keep)

It's getting closer now. Edging on and on, engulfing them, swallowing them whole (like Jonah and the Whale, only there's no god to save them this time) in that tight, unfamiliar embrace, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing -

Dying doesn't feel too bad, honestly, he lies to himself. It's a little bit like heartache.

The sun breaks through the sky; rays of light streaming through clouds and landing like golden droplets onto the land surrounding them. No, not droplets, _diamonds_. That's it. He closes his eyes and breathes the word to himself.

They sit - hands entwined like lovers – and watch the world burn around them.

/

_this is the way the world ends, not with a bang but with a whimper_

\- T.S Elliott

/

I don't own Harry Potter, Sylvia Plath, Charles Dickens, Kurt Vonnegut, James Joyce or Sweet Dreams. And shoutout goes to Mika for the title, which is from Lollipop.

I'd just like to say that I know this chapter might be quite offensive at times and I didn't mean any disrespect to anyone, I just wanted to make Rose's character as accurate as possible.

So how was it? I think this one might be my favourite. I wrote the last part first, so I hope it fits in with the rest. This was originally very different to what it ended up as, it was going to be like 10 short different AUs, but I loved this one so much I took it and wrote a whole fic around it.

Disclaimer: Rose/Scorpius in this fic isn't meant to be romantic. It's actually a very toxic relationship here, although everything is consensual, I'd say it's quite manipulative and self-destructive. Also, she ends the fucking world.

Any favourite/least favourite bits?

THIS WAS ABSOLUTELY HORRIBLE TO UPLOAD. IT TOOK ME ABOUT TWO HOURS. Y'ALL BETTER BE GRATEFUL LOL.

Thanks to:

nahis - for this request, it was fun to rewrite because I didn't particularly like the other one (I'm considering deleting it?)

guest – for the requests, sure!

moondustandroses - thank you! it was interesting to write, though it took a while!

blackriddle711 - thanks! of course I'll write a wolfstar!


	43. Glory and Gore - FredHermione

Glory and Gore

Fred/Hermione

Warnings: AU, but still set in the wizarding world during the war. Death.

Music: Little Talks, Of Monsters and Men.

x.

(_we used to play outside when we were young / and full of life and full of love_)

x.

_"This is Rapier with today's updates: seventeen muggles and muggleborns have been injured in a fiendfyre attack near Glasgow, ten are presumed dead and five are missing, more to come on this tragedy soon..."  
_  
x.

Here is something they do not teach you in the history books: on the day Hermione Granger is born, the Death Eaters slaughter twenty-three muggles.

They are unrelated incidents.

The twenty-three are - arguably - inconsequential. Nobody remembers their names, the event is one of a succession and only used as a talking point, an 'oh, it's getting worse,' because it is, the Death Eaters are getting better, the violence is getting more and more frequent and thus, it becomes (individually) trivial, yet (generally) a widespread panic.

"Twenty-three," they say, with shaking heads and fake-sadness, and do not care about any of them.

Even the muggles (take an example in particular, Hermione Granger's parents) are beginning to suspect unrest within their world, (suspect! twenty-three don't just disappear!) though they blame the video games (all gore and blood and fighting and murder) and terrorism, of course, it's all terrorism.

Rose and Robbie Granger live in an undisturbed area of the Midlands so far away from thriving cities and dangerous nightlife that when they kiss their baby on the top of her forehead, they do not imagine even the slightest bit of harm will come to her. Hermione, a perfectly-ordinary child in a cautious, do-gooder family. Bound to live a natural, normal life, they're sure.

This is what they do teach you in the history books: Hermione Granger is destined for something special.

x.

an interlude

(They find Peter Pettigrew face down in a river bank, eyes plucked out by birds and blood beginning to crust. A quick inspection of his body proves what they had not dared to think - that he had played in the dark - the mark on his skin as hollow-proof.

Who killed him? They'd like to know. The authorities, that is. Mostly corrupt, but with traces of good left in there, moral, hard-working people trying to get the work done.

An inside job, they suspect. For fun. Killed by his own teammates. Ironic. They do not think about it much after that.

Lily Potter and her husband sob with grief and wonder why. They do not know that this will change fate and keep them alive.)

x.

When Fred is five, his father quits the Ministry.

It's something to do with the whole hierarchy of the thing nowadays, all screwed up and pure-blood and also something to do with the fact that they think he's a worthless blood-traitor who won't ever amount to greatness.

"Well," Arthur tells them at the dinner table, pushing up his glasses and looking quite indignant about the whole thing, "I'd rather be a loser than a bigot, don't you agree?"

Molly shakes her head, announces that their father is a good man, foolishly so, and that they'll be looking after the pennies from here on out. Even more than before. They're poor, Fred deduces, that's what it all means. No more job for his dad, no more money for them.

"There's a war," his brother Percy informs him thinly, "that's why it's all like this."

War, he thinks, like his toy soldiers, the ones with tiny wands that go "bang!" and move in the middle of the night. It'll just be one big fight, one courageous, noble battle and the good guys will win and all the bad men will go home. That's what it'll be like.

It'll all be over soon.

x.

an interlude

(Something slips and leaks and all of a sudden Harry Potter is a household name.

'_Who is he_?' they ask, and also, '_where is he_?' Because he's supposed to be saving them, you see, destroying You-Know-Who and ridding the world of evil. The prophecy said. It told them so.

But he's not and they're dying more rapidly now. Fading like stars. A flash of green light and droplets of impure blood, everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.

Somewhere in France there is a boy with messy hair, two not-dead parents and a forehead without a scar. He's running from something he doesn't understand. only six years old. Too young, too soon, too innocent.

Evans' and Potter's son. oh, they remember them. The redhead - mudblood - and the boy with messy hair - blood-traitor - who chased her around. Well, why did they give birth to the saviour? And, why, why, - god, oh god - why are they hiding him away?

_Why won't he free them_?)

x.

Don't you know that there is darkness in little girl's hearts?

(and that Hermione Granger is a _freak_ who made bad-things happen behind the bike sheds?)

Her experiments. Colours; black and grey and red and bright, blazing orange, words (_i'll be ever so late_, said the white rabbit) and rhythms and patterns, all from a flick of the wrist and a stare -

Oh, that stare! All brown eyes and no soul, (_freak_!) black as coal and wise beyond her years. She gazes on at her creation (_devil_!) while they sob and pray to the Lord their Saviour, father above in heaven, save them, save them!

She's the talk of the town, now, see, a thing of wonderment, all gossip and shrieks between overprotective mothers. They're concerned, that's it, just for the safety of the children, even for the girl herself, to carry on attending school as such! As if everything is normal!

Because it's not, of course, she's not. Normal.

They've heard the tales and read the bible and everybody knows this will not turn out well.

x.

an interlude

(They're all looking for Lily and James. Not the people who matter, obviously, not the good, the bold, the downtrodden, they don't care in the slightest but -

Well. It starts with death and ends with a certain vile organisation. Bellatrix Lestrange is particularly vigilant in her quest. Anything to please her master. Make him clap his hands and pull her strings just a little _harder_.

She'd like it like that. It's awfully exciting.

Sirius - her darling cousin - and his lover the werewolf are nowhere to be found. Running from her, presumably. It's so much effort to chase after dogs, she simply can't be bothered.

But there's cracks and slips in the ever-dwindling order. And if anyone knows where her star-crossed parents and their little brat are it's -

He very nearly chose them, you know.

Bellatrix supposes _she'll_ be the one to bestow the Longbottoms with the honour.)

x.

They catch seventeen Death Eaters on the day of Fred's eleventh birthday.

He hears about it from his parents, - the cheers and champagne, along with the mourning for those lost - from the news, too, it's all over the place. Bellatrix Lestrange, too, oh, he knows her name. Alice and Frank, who used to bring tea and biscuits. Locked away in hospital halls for good, with broken minds and bits of memories.

But You-Know-Who - well he's still out there, all angry now too, now that his toys have been stolen away from him.

They'll still be hidden away. Have to protect themselves, armed with wands and order members and tiny little tricks to throw Him off their backs.

Not safe, nobody's safe, they'll never ever be, not until Voldemort's dead and gone and buried in the ground, but that won't be until, oh -

Fred knows the prophecy. Everybody does, wizard or witch, adult or child, light or dark or the murky grey in between.

Harry Potter.

He breathes out, as if to make a wish on a shooting star (he's eleven, he knows they don't come true) and wonders when they'll all be rescued from this godforsaken war.

(ever?)

x.

an interlude

(They lock them up and throw away the key. Good Riddance, they say, without an inch of compassion, or a twitch of the eye, rot in there.

Fudge takes the credit, of course. What were you expecting? It's the middle of a war, there's no better time to plug a political campaign.

It was down to what remains of the Order, actually, the few beacons of light left in a disease-riddled Ministry. It's a wonder they got them convicted at all, considering how corrupt the whole filthy goddamn place is.

There's a joke on the subject, kept amongst the revolutionaries. Something along the lines of: if Fudge wants his Aurors to catch Death Eaters, he should just send them through his own departments.

But he wouldn't. He wouldn't go that far. He's not a damn saint, you know.

Lestrange. Now there's one they wouldn't want getting out. No, not at all. It's a risk, of course, what with you-know-who being out and loose and fucking powerful, but he's got his bodyguards and a plethora of spells to protect him, he'll take his chances.

Oh? Her? Azkaban's security has been ramped up. More dementors than you'd ever fucking imagine. Others too. They're buried in there, deep. Barely any chance of them escaping. Yes, yes, he knows who he's dealing with, next question, but You-Know-Who isn't quite as strong now, of course, without his - what do they call them? see, they're barely relevant - Death Eaters.

And the boy. The boy. What's his name? Potter, yes, that's right, He knew the family once upon a time, Well, he's off to a bounding start. Destined to save them all. He's even heard rumours - no, no, he understands that the state of the country is at stake - that the older the boy gets, the weaker that -

It's all hearsay, of course. Can't found a government based on whispers through the grapevine. But they'll be careful now, you watch, they'll fight this dirty fucking war and win.)

x.

Hermione gets a letter and a visit from a strange woman who makes lights glow and twinkle and pop.

She's eleven. She doesn't believe in magic, in the things that go spook in the night, but hey, looks like she's a witch. Witch. Freak. The words make sense, almost. They're synonymous on her tongue, but oh, sod it, she's excited!

Off to some school in Scotland, apparently, some marvellous magic school where she'll do dreadfully exciting magic things and she'll be normal, finally, not odd-one-out Hermione.

"We're going to have to give you an escort," the woman (McGonagall, Hermione thinks her name is, something of the sort) says with tired eyes and a pinched mouth, "to Diagon Alley, that is. It's where you get your things."

A hat, a wand, a cauldron, a pet. Books too, of course, books with leathery spines and secrets to the universe. She's positively dreamy in her excitement.

But things aren't quite right, no they aren't, all messed up and terrible, (read between the lines, she needs an escort, she needs to be guarded) and McGonagall doesn't smile at the good news, she frowns. Grits her teeth. Adjusts her glasses. "The Wizarding World isn't as safe as it could be," she's apologetic, Hermione's parents hands grip to each other in fear, "there's something terrible - a war, I suppose."

They sweat and shake and the frown lines begin to form on their daughter's face. "Will she be safe?"

"As long as Headmaster Dumbledore is around," the witch says firmly, "everyone at Hogwarts will be safe."

Not to be trusted, they think, but let their daughter run off anyway, all this strange and bizarre truth, (_magic_! or so they say) and war too, war, with all it's ravagings. There they go, letting their daughter into the fray, allowing her to chase after mad dreams and fictional tales and -

(_she's perfectly fine_, they whisper, with mouths of sin and liars, _perfectly, perfectly, perfectly -_ )

x.

an interlude

(Green lights glitter in the distance and the streets are stained with red.

He's getting powerful. You'd better watch out. Hide your children and your lovers, draw the curtains and keep them away.

He is is, he is, the Dark Lord is coming after y_ou_!)

x.

Bill is the only one who (truly, properly) remembers Diagon Alley, the way it used to be.

"There were bright lights," he tells them, (sometime around the twins first trip there, just before they start Hogwarts) shaking his head and trying to recall, "and it was busy. Really busy. So many people..."

Nowadays, they try to avoid going as much as they can; sunken ships and drowning men do not much amuse the Weasleys, but it's a necessary part of the school year, (apparently so, even if they cannot afford much) enough to drag them all out of the house for a day or two.

"Why does Percy get an owl?" They complain together (him and George, it's always him and George) much to their mother's chagrin. "Just because he's Prefect?"

She nods her head, bustles them along with a frown and a guarded look at a nearby stranger. "Keep your voices down," she informs them briskly, "you never know who's lurking...oh, and yes, Percy got an owl because he became Prefect, just like one of you will if you manage it - "

They laugh (as quietly as they can) to themselves as they turn the corner, wands poised at the ready. Ron looks on anxiously, gazing in wonderment at the blackened buildings and boarded-up windows. "Are you joking Mum?" George pretends to hold his sides, tugs his face up into a grin. "Prefect? One of us?"

The street is empty. Her mother lets out a relieved sigh and stuffs her wand back into her pocket. "Yes, well," she gives a thin-lipped smile, "after what you did to Marcus Flint, I'm sure you'll be missing out on the opportunity."

Fred's eyes harden. "He called a girl..." a hesitation, tremor, "you know - "

"And I'm proud of you," she adds, softening briefly, "oh, but you can't go around hexing people at school! Anyway, we're here now, so keep your voices down and out of trouble...I'm sure Mr. Ollivander has enough trouble as it is."

She knocks twice and waits. A silvery eye appears nervously at the peep-hole. Ollivander rustles open the chain and stands aloft by the door.

"What wand did I sell you," he counts on his fingers, holds his breath, "roughly thirty years ago?"

Molly doesn't even flinch before she answers. "Willow, unicorn hair, thirteen inches."

"Good," he says, opening the door at arm's length and peering down at Fred, George and Ron, "one can never be too careful, you know..." he checks the street for strangers, but it is - predictably - empty, "what with all that's going on."

She nods her head. "I understand the caution," she takes a seat, points her wand at the curtains and makes sure they're drawn, "we almost didn't come, actually, if it weren't for my son, Ron - he's starting Hogwarts this year - we would've stayed completely at home. It's just too dangerous now."

Ron blushes and refuses to meet anyone's eyes.

"It's not safe," Ollivander tells them, bustling about to fetch a practice wand, "nowhere, nobody...it's simply not _safe_ anymore."

x.

an interlude

(Lily and James go to a French wandmaker. By request of Albus, only, - "a good friend," he tells them solemnly, "someone to trust." - because they would raised Harry a muggle if they could. He's not going to Beauxbatons, of course, not where everybody knows him, not where everybody's out to get him and take him and -

They lie about their names. Mr and Mrs Evans. Henry Evans, their magical son. Nothing out of ordinary though, not in the slightest, not the least bit, they claim, - because they barely leave the house - all perfectly natural and fine, thank you, f-i-n-e.

And Harry gets his wand and Dumbledore is pleased because -

Something. Something special. Something important. He won't tell them what. They're nearly going mad, all cooped up here. Cottage in France by themselves. Not as quaint as it would seem. Boring, boring, boring! They want a quest. Give them a quest! But leave Harry out of it. leave him out, out, out.

After all. He's why they're here in the first place.)

x.

They chain up the Hogwarts Express and fill it with toy soldiers.

(to make it safe, of course, only to make it safe - )

Hermione is hoarded to the back, swept amongst the crowds of children, away and out of (sight) reach with the other muggleborns. For their protection, - they have to be guarded, you see, it's an awful scary world out there - of course, locks and keys and Order members (dangling by Dumbledore's sting) at the door.

The journey is sweltering and suffering, full of bumps and frights and they all breathe a sigh of relief when it finishes. They're led off the train by their hands and they cry and want to go back home, back to their mother's arms and normalcy and not this strange, strange otherness, but it looms, looms and says "you're here forever," with it's wolfish red grin.

The castle gives off a particular (stale and musty and horrifying) aura, one that reminds Hermione of the tragedies in the morning newspaper and old horror novels she's read. Dracula, perhaps, but there are no vampires here, only witchcraft and wizardry and (perhaps) dark magic.

Inside, the halls sparkle, gleam too bright and scream of contrast; warmth and hidden danger, protection and...destruction.

She's read the history, (in preparation, you understand, for what's to come) seen the highs and lows, but now it isn't inked words on page, it's in the flesh and - and -

( - a monstrosity? - no that's not it - perhaps, a fairytale come true - oh, she'll have to find out - )

The sorting - she knows of it, briefly, knows the house to want, knows the house that'll rip her to shreds and waste her (unpure) blood - begins, quick, bright, prepared.

There are whispers every time a muggleborn's (mudblood's) name is called, (they know, of course, they know) a jeer from certain crowds, a silence for the poor, poor darlings, thrust into a world they cannot ever truly know.

It's no different for Hermione.

She clenches her fists, waits for the tapping of words in her mind and lets the hat begin.

"Clever," it whispers, like a snake writhing upon her skull, "so clever. Utterly, utterly magnificent. Worthy of Ravenclaw, no doubt."

"It's risky," cold and calculating, no emotion, none, "their alignment with Slytherin is too strong. Too many..." she pauses, "bad wizards. You know what they say about knowledge."

(power)

"So young," it murmurs, almost to itself, "to carry the weight of the world among her shoulders."

She's never been likened to Atlas before. How poetic. How tragic.

"You could," it sounds sorrowful, "have been one, if you were of...purer blood. Got the ambition, the drive, the cunning. In another world, perhaps."

Imagine her, (Hermione Granger, dirty little mudblood) a Slytherin! Built of ice and stone, shards of glass that prick, prick, prick. Salazar's child. Whispers and secrets form pretty (liar) girls, or haven't you heard?

She shakes the thought away from her mind with her dark curls. "We live in this one," she bites back, "what house?"

What house, what house, what house? Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, (not) Slytherin. Roll the dice, flip the coin, it's anybody's game, really. She's got it all, Hermione Granger. No wonder they despise her.

"I think it shall be - " it stops, considers, "no, no, that's not quite right. Give me a minute to catch my breath, dear, you're awfully tricky to work out. It's not a rushed decision, you see, with someone in your predicament and with your personality. Could determine a lot. I wonder, I wonder. No, yes, I suppose we'll see how it turns out in GRYFFINDOR!"

x.

an interlude

(Everybody notices, of course. they wait with bated breath until Mcgonagall unceremoniously skips over P for Potter and heads straight into the names beginning with M.

So. Famous Harry not even bothering to show up. They all know quite why; if he did he'd be hounded upon and blown to bits. Hogwarts has dark forces, now, even with Dumbledore - old fool - in the mix.

It's a no good place for no good people, nowadays.

But You-Know-Who is on his trail. He's been ripping the whole country apart. Even gone all the way back to Godric's Hollow, only to find upturned beds and empty drawers. He killed half the whole damn town in rage.

It's been slower, without his seventeen. Not that he misses them, no, not at all. They just make things more efficient, you see, but he could do it all himself. He could, he could, of course he could, he's the Dark Lord - the Dark Lord, you understand, you hear? Listen, listen, he'll _make you listen_!

It might be time, he thinks, to reunite with old friends.)

x.

Hogwarts is plagued by war, Fred comes to realise a few weeks into his stay.

He and George hex the Slytherins (mudbloods and blood-traitors, they hiss with forked tongues) and pull pranks, tell the same tired old jokes and gain a couple of half-hearted laughs.

It's thick and heavy, dripping like sludge. It's in his lessons, in the stares they get from potential Death Eaters and the anger that bubbles over in him when they try to speak. In his heart, in his head, in every fucking newspaper headline that announces another innocent slaughtered.

They write (him, George, and Percy too, even) to his mother and father, daily, now. They have to, they have to! To know that they're safe and well and not -

It's a cursed word, now. Nobody dares speak it aloud. One of the girls in the year above him had her brother killed just last week, another in the year below had her whole family murdered in the attack on Carlisle. They're sending them home. What's left of it, anyway.

It's always been like this, for as long as he can remember, always, but it's worse now, like how it was back before they caught those seventeen, (and Lestrange, too, god, do not forget her) streets that run red with blood and never peace, never, no matter how you dare dream.

You have to scrub away the wax in your brain to survive. The 'perhaps it will be alright,' the 'there's been no news today,' all those dreadful, dreadful thoughts that seep in like gas and lull you into a false sense of security.

You have to be alert.

And he is, he is, he always is. Fred's got this feeling, this terrible-awful feeling (don't worry! he laughs it all off and plays his games with George) that something _BIG_ is going to happen. Something BIG. And BAD too, maybe, maybe if he's lonely at night and this insect, this bug, this awful little virus comes knocking upon his skull.

This worry, this anxiety, this doubt.

It'll happen, it'll happen, you'll see, it'll happen -

x.

an interlude

(James and Lily teach Harry themselves. They buy books from the local bookstore in paper disguises that barely conceal fear. They make it home alive. unseen, unspotted. They always do, after all.

Harry learns his first spell: a swish and a flick and "Wingardium Leviosa!" He gets it right, of course, it's what he's meant to do, what he's been trained to be since birth. Golden, legendary boy. Saviour Boy.

James holds Lily's hand that night and wonders if they're immortal.

Maybe they are. Maybe that's the problem.)

x.

Neville Longbottom is a shy, quivering boy with a bit of a stutter and also Hermione's first friend.

She knows the tale, of course, (everybody does, it's quite common knowledge) about his parents, what happened to them, but she doesn't dare mention it to him,no, she's sure he's had quite enough of that for a lifetime. Everybody knowing, everybody peering in with wide glassy eyes that pretend to feel; guilt, worry, shame. She shudders at the thought.

They're not incredibly close, no, no, but they sit together at lunch sometimes, have idle conversations about the weather and such, oh, and don't they make the perfect pair of freaks? Half-orphan blood-traitor and dirty little mudblood, a comedy duo for the history books!

(it's ironic, you know, because they go down in them years later)

Here, look! Upon this place - their blossom of a friendship - are the first sparks of the second revolution!

x.

an interlude

(He's recruiting.

Across the country. All over Europe.

For souls - black and charred, wilted flowers and ashes - to join him. to pledge their undying devotion, take up their wands and prepare for the brave war. Willing to die, for him, of course, Always for him.

Men built of sorrow and anger. Who weep for the past and long for the future.

Turns out, there are quite a few.)

x.

Fred might be the clown, (the fool, the ignorant trickster, you see the pattern) but he turns out to get it all right. All correct. Those dark feelings, dear, those aren't for nothing!

Then again, then again. Count it on your fingers, hear it in the wind. You'd be an idiot not to see it coming.

(**bang**!)

x.

an interlude

(For the first time ever, there is an escape from Azkaban.

And then a second. And a third. Oh, you get the picture, _don't you_?

All seventeen, tumbling, crashing out with mad grins on their faces and revenge on their minds. They pull out bricks and bare their fists, curve their wand-less hands into murderous grips and unadulterated rage.

The Dark Lord - you wouldn't think it was possible, but it's true, it's true - takes a deep breath and smiles.

His servants paint themselves - black of course, it's always black - for battle.)

x.

Another thing they do not tell you in the history books: at the exact moment Cornelius Fudge gets his throat slit wide open, Hermione Granger is fast asleep.

The knife is tarnished silver, quite old and dreadfully _blunt_. From Bellatrix' husband's collection, in fact, but she's always prided herself on snobbery. They don't tell you that in the news either, but that's mainly because she also murders the reporter.

Hermione wakes to shouting and crashing, bright orange lights and green, god, too much green! Blissful darkness, illuminated by wandlight and fears too, of course, the stench of unmistakable vulnerability, the cries and shrieks of children and adults alike.

"EVACUATE THE CASTLE!"

She doesn't know who begins the shouts, but she presumes it's one of the older years, hurrying to save them all. A noble sacrifice, if slight, a piercing cry that echoes off the walls and rings in her ears. Haunting, haunting, _god, save them all_!

"What's going on?"

It's a whisper, barely meant to be heard, but the pale-faced girl (who appears as though she might faint) next to her seems to hear.

"We have to go," she murmurs, clutching at her nightgown, face streaked with fright, "we have to go. They're coming."

They hurry her along, sweep her up in the crowds. Down the stairs, into the halls, waiting for some - any - instruction of what to do, where to be.

"THEY'RE IN HOGSMEADE!"

Outside, there is the unmistakable pitter patter of rain beginning to fall.

x.

an interlude

(_One, two, do the march. Quite like a dance, isn't it? Three, four, knock on the doors. They're coming to get you!_

Swinging to the beat. Firing off their wands. Red and green, red and green and murder, too, what an excitement! Wizards and witches, a fair amount, a mass of black cloaks and masks and terror-faces.

In the midst of his dark troupe, Tom Riddle treads foot on frost and watches his creation unfold.)

x.

"What the hell is going on?"

Fred is bustled along by the other boys, George by his side, keeping together; they have to keep together. What's going on, what's going on? Oh, god, it can't be, but it is, but it is, but it is -

"So war has finally come to Hogwarts," Dumbledore's voice rings out amongst them, he smiles his nonchalant smile and stops the low hum of chatter in seconds, "I suppose Tom Riddle has finally gotten bold enough to join us."

Tom. They don't speak the name aloud, normally. Would you call the devil Lucifer?

"You're all quite safe, of course," his eyes mist over, he stands by the window and stares out into the darkness, "Hogwarts has been - and always will be - well protected against the forces of evil. If one should deign to call it such."

Fred doesn't understand this last sentence, at first. It's all black and white in his mind, you see, no grey or violet, no happy neutral; only good or bad and those who walk these separate realms. He's only a teenager, you'll have to forgive him. Forgive him, won't you? Forgive him.

"That is," Dumbledore continues, "if, and only if, you remain inside the castle. There shall be no protection on the grounds. The sealing charm - cast by myself and my fellow colleagues - only stretches so far."

His voice takes a sharp note. "Do you all understand?"

There are whispers and murmurs, but eventually nods of gentle reluctance. Yes, yes, yes. We do, we do, we do! Don't get yourself killed, don't end up a bag of bones, don't try and face You-Know-Who yourself because that's stupidity, it is, it is and not worth it, no, for a moment of heroics and martyrdom.

Molly would kill him if he tried, Fred thinks fondly. George would too.

"Now," Dumbledore smiles once more, returns to his dreamy nature and ignores the protests beginning to rumble in the Slytherin corner of the room, "I'm afraid I'll have to leave. Professor Snape, would you care to join me in my office?"

x.

a downfall

"I see you've come to kill me, Tom." Albus displays no emotion at this statement, simply lets the rain roll and drip off his beard.

Bellatrix lunges forward, prepared to protect her master's dignity - Tom! Tom! how dare they call him Tom? - but is held back. she settles for a howl of laughter instead.

"By yourself, Albus?" He is cordial, but there is a hiss to his voice. dislike, distrust, rage. "How unusual."

Albus smiles, steps forward. He holds his head high, doesn't blink. "I have dear Severus to keep me company."

Voldemort twists his cold mouth into a sneer. As if on command, his hoard of men break into juvenile sniggers, mockery and amusement. "Severus? One of my most loyal servants? I suppose you haven't worked it out yet. They do say you're going quite soft, don't they?"

"Oh dear," Dumbledore replies, still apathetic, "Severus, is this true?"

The man nods behind his mask, nose curling up in disgust; or guilt, perhaps, it's hard to tell.

"Why," Albus is still, save for his hands, which flutter in the moonlight, "I've always quite considered betrayal to be one of the most dishonest acts in human nature. Though I assume exposing it would be the opposite, wouldn't it?"

Their eyes stare blankly ahead. They do not know what he means, or maybe they simply do not care. "Foolish old man," Riddle spits on the ground, "Look at you now! Powerlesss, one against a thousand. I thought you'd bring an army to defend you."

Dumbledore laughs at this, throws his head back and lets it reverberate around the grounds. "Like you, you mean?"

There is no response, only a growing angry mutter from his crowd, a displeasure amongst his men.

"So many," he comments, "come to kill a weak old man. I'm dying, Tom," he glances down at his hand and tugs at the ring placed there, takes a sad smile upon himself, "in case you hadn't noticed. There's really no need for all these dramatics and no need to damage your soul, it's tainted enough, I can see - oh, quite clearly."

He pauses, then continues.

"I see you've made your decision though, and I'm quite sure it would be unwise for me to stop it. In any case, I'd like to mention a stipulation of mine - just a precaution, do you understand?"

Voldemort snarls. "You do not get to make the rules in this game, Dumbledore. Where is Harry Potter?"

"I have no clue as to the whereabouts of young Mr. Potter," he wipes the droplets of rain on his forehead, "though I wish him the best in his endeavours. Now, I really do insist that you adhere to this: murder me in cold blood, as you will - I do suspect I've had it coming for quite a while now - but you do not touch the students of Hogwarts tonight. Not that you'll be able to, in fact, I have certain protective spells in place to ensure that, but I do beg you not to even try - "

A flash of green light, a bang.

Wordlessly, Dumbledore topples to the floor.

Severus Snape puts away his wand without gesture. "My lord," he speaks slowly, does not meet his master's eyes, "I could not bear any more of his...speech."

"He's dead!" Bellatrix shrieks with glee and the rest of the Death Eaters follow suit, stamping their feet up and down with great riot and triumph. "Albus Dumbledore - dead!"

x.

They bury the body in the morning.

Tomorrow, they will begin to send the students home.

x.

an interlude

(Lily and James get a letter delivered to their doorstep by a masked man in black.

She takes her wand out, but she's too late. He vanishes into this thin air. His cloak barely misses her grasp.

They don't take it, at first - because, oh god, what if it's him, what if he's found them? - but James reasons with her, argues that it could be anyone, anything, and would You-Know-Who not make more with the killing than the fancy calligraphy?

So they do. And it's signed with "Dumbledore," of course it is, who else would it be? It is pages and pages though, detailed information scribbled out in neat, at least an hour's reading.

To James, Lily and Harry, the letter begins. The last is underlined.

And then a title:

"Horcruxes.")

x.

And so, their brief endeavours at Hogwarts are brought to an end.

"We didn't need school anyway," George tries to comfort his mum, "we'll join the circus or something, I don't know."

Fred briefly imagines his brother as a trapeze artist and snorts. He reverts back to his serious state once his mother looks up, eyes red and puffy, face tear-stained.

"Dumbledore," she says, voice torn, hoarse, "I can't believe he - "

His father bites his lip and taps the desk. "With him gone - Merlin, they might have already won. Dumbledore was practically the only thing keeping the Order going and now..."

"You'll put it back together," Fred is desperate, he has to be, he has to cling onto the cracks and keep them sticking, "you've got Kingsley, and Mad-Eye, too, Tonks, Sirius and Remus, loads of people."

Arthur shakes his head. "Sirius and Remus are in hiding. It's too risky getting them involved, with their connections to the Potters. They're prime targets."

"He's right though," Bill argues, sitting up, "I mean, besides the Potters. We're not just going to give up on this war, are we? Let You-Know-Who take over? We've got to continue with the Order, there's no other way."

"Who says we weren't?" Molly snaps suddenly, eyes blazing, hands waving, shooing them out the room. "Fred and George are far too young for this conversation! I don't want them getting involved, not until they're eighteen at least!"

Their protests are useless. There's no arguing with their mother, not when Dumbledore's dead and the world's in catastrophic danger, not when she's like this. Not when everyone's like this. Sucked up and spat out; miserable and terrified.

x.

an interlude

("He's too young," Lily pleads with her husband, makes sure Harry's out of earshot. Practicing his spells, like a good boy. "He can't know, can't go, we have to do it alone - "

James sighs, combs a hand through his hair. "Dumbledore said he has to be the one. He's the - "

"If you say chosen one, I'll bloody well kill you, James Potter," she hisses, "and you know very well I'm not one for empty threats."

He laughs at that, just a bit. Look at them, look at them! James and Lily Potter, Hogwarts' best couple, tearing at the seams and ripping at the edges. "We'll find Remus and Sirius, then! take them with us! We can't sit around and do nothing, Lily, it's - "

"You think I want to?" She's pale, fragile, withering. Like a flower. Ironic, isn't it? All in the name, it's all in the name. "We can't leave Harry, we can't, we can't, we _can't_ \- " )

x.

Watch her now, little miss fish out of water! Taken out of her pond, out of her jigsaw puzzle piece (it fit, for once) and thrown back into reality.

"It wouldn't have worked out anyway," her parents assure her, their worried hearts still for now, "out there, on your own."

The world's a lonely place. She doesn't mind - or no, she does! - not at all, no, no, she's coping fine, Hermione Granger, flicking back and forth and squirming in the wrong places, the places she isn't supposed to be.

Hermione's not got a dainty mouth, nor a pretty tongue; but she'll go far, you'll see, with her articulacy, her outrage at injustice. Almost a Slytherin, never a real wizard - how does the proper saying go? - but she'll be, (watch her! watch her glow!) someday soon, it's just a little bit of effort and a love for perfection.

She's taken a book (thief, they cry thief!) from the book-store in Diagon Alley. Nobody noticed - it's rickety and old, falling apart in the war and trying to stay afloat - nobody cared and now she has another spells book to her ever-growing collection. They're like jewels, her books, they glitter and sing out to her, tell her try, try for once and be special, be dazzling, glitter, glitter, shine!

Then, tut tut, they click their teeth, there's a war on, you know? Don't be getting any grand ideas about places and royalty, now, dearie, there's death and destruction and she's nothing peculiar after all, just another statistic, bound for the trains to made-up stations and a wand at her throat then -

Splash, bang, she doesn't know the logistics. Never seen it happen, (not yet, not yet) never witnessed a murder. But now, now, with a few stolen books and a death wish, she's all wrapping herself in this wallpaper nice and tight, ready to be the sacrificial lamb, the martyr, or perhaps even the leader. The (one who survives) heroic figure, the rebellion, the revolution. Oh, she can dream, can't she? Of better days? Of acts of justice?

(_mudblood!_ they sing pretty and she'll never be anything more)

x.

an interlude

(And so they tell their son he's supposed to win a war by himself.

Because, _Dumbledore_, and _death_ and_ pain_ and -

God. He's just twelve, okay? Don't do this to him. Don't make him the knight who rips the dragon's throat out. Don't make him the chosen one. Don't bring him to the altar and put a dagger at his chest.

But you have to, they say, you have to. It's all woven into fate. Let him wind the string around himself and if he chokes, if he chokes; it's just the way of the gods.

There are six. Five now, Dumbledore destroyed the ring, but the locket's a fake, - RAB, the man behind the mask - and they need to find them all before it's all quite too late.)

x.

The new Minister for Magic (Pius Thicknesse, a man with a smile like blood and hands stained with it) announces the changes on the radio, with a swish and a flick and a turn-the-world-upside-down.

"Hogwarts," he says, and Fred can imagine his leering grin, his vile superiority, "is now exclusive to wizard-born wizards, who are obligated to attend."

They turn the radio up, with a shout of anger. Mandatory! Forced to go, herded like sheep into the slaughterhouse, except no, no, they're training them to be killers, like them, like them (never, he shouts inside his head, never) all fucked up and bad and wrong.

(wizard-born wizards. what do they do with the rest?)

"I'm delighted to declare," a curl of the lips, here, not-visible to his audience, "Severus Snape's ascension to the role of Headmaster."

Even worse, even worse! The devil himself, upon Dumbledore's throne! Built of the bones of the man he murdered, the man whose soul he clenched in his pale fist and crushed to dust!

They whisper: here lies the future, Fred, and isn't it a grave one indeed?

x.

an interlude

(James works it out some day in July, only just before they have finished preparing for the journey. R.A.B. He falters slightly, almost drops his cup of tea, nearly sees the ghosts in the shadows.

"Sirius," he tells her, and at first she thinks he's mad, homesick, driven by the moon and the stars (he has not run as a deer in a long, long time) and the ache of missing friends, but she thinks maybe, maybe -

Well. Her husband has his uses, she supposes.

"We don't know where he is," she frets, because they don't, they've been awful friends - and he promised to not forget them, but they couldn't stay any longer and it was too much of a risk - awful, bad friends and he could be anywhere in the world, him and Remus too. "We don't know where he is."

"We'll figure it out," he kisses her forehead, sighs, puts his wishes in the sea and longs for boys long-forgotten, "I know we will.")

x.

The sky is crimson and her days are sunless.

They're making her go back. To the school from before, (the not-Hogwarts) the girls who fled at the very sight of her. Demon-freak-witch, cursed everywhere she chooses to go.

She was due to start today, (in the other-world) September-Second, Second-Year.

Oh, and she's tired! Her heart beats ever so fast, she can barely take war and disappointment all at once!

x.

an interlude

(There are so many jigsaw pieces and none of them seem to fit.

What would he have, Tom Riddle? What would he take and cherish and taint with darkness? Where is Sirius? Where is Remus? How do they destroy these cursed objects, how do they find them?

Give them a clue. They're halfway to working it out.)

x.

Someday, all he'll be is remembered -

Fleeting flashes on tongues, teardrops on cheeks, a hero, a hero.

"We've got to protect them," Angelina says under her breath, (they speak in whispers now) eyes wide and worried for the future, "all the first years. They'll be targets - especially the half-bloods. We have to do something."

The train wheels chug on and on and -

"We'll form a new Order," he tells the room, George's head (twins are connected by puppet strings) nodding along in agreement, "for us, for the school. We'll fight for them, for...you know, Dumbledore, Harry Potter, everybody."

Fighting for ghosts and shadows, just scraping fourteen and caught up in things they don't understand.

Ron and Ginny are there now. Ron and Ginny, caught in spiders webs, tearing off the sticky thread (tangled webs we weave) struggling against the tide. Eleven, twelve, oh, won't he imagine the way their necks will snap in frightening, awful detail?

"Keep it secret," Katie adds, looking round fearfully, "if it gets out, we're dead. Or - expelled, or tortured, or - "

George clears his throat loudly. "It's not going to get out," he says, "I trust everyone here. And we're all fighting over the same thing, aren't we? You-Know-Who. The Death Eaters."

"The new Hogwarts too," Lee pulls at his hair and grimaces, "with Snape and the Carrows. They're not going to take this lightly. Dickheads."

A small chuckles goes round the compartment. "Wankers," George continues, "the bloody bastards."

"I know right where they can stick their wands." Fred grins, (bears his teeth) and draws up battle plans in his mind. This way, that way, all locked up and chained in. Young and brave, these lion-hearts, these rebels. "We need a meeting place, still. And members, more members – "

Angelina looks on distastefully."You sure?"

"Yeah," he pauses, "yeah, come on. People we can trust. Like, Oliver. We've got to protect each other, protect everybody."

They're almost there now. The train is slowing down.

No, he thinks, no, it should be speeding up.

Crashing to a halt, spinning out of balance, setting the whole world aflame.

x.

an interlude

(There is a small, blonde boy. His name is Draco Malfoy.

His father does not love him.

-_ they laugh, shrill and high and ask "does anyone?"_ -

Poor little pureblood boy. Lost and alone. Wandering into darkness and despair, forced into joining the Dark Lord's circus troupe. Not yet, of course, not yet, he's still baby-faced and young, not nearly a good enough killer.

Could be, could be, could be. His world is full of possibilities: sharp-edged and sly.

Pale cheekbones and half-smiles and twelve year old boys shouldn't be like this, he knows, he knows, they know!

Save him, won't you? Won't you fucking save him? Save him, god, save him!

Put together his broken bones, piece together the bits of his mind, drag him out of the water and stop him from drowning. This tiny boy, this almost-man, this devil's child. Destined for great and terrible things, they're sure you're quite aware.

There is a small blonde boy. His name is Draco Malfoy.

But all that is quite irrelevant.)

x.

They're fleeing the country, most of them.

It won't be long now, you'll see. They'll round them up like sheep (dirty_! filthy! mudbloods_!) and toss them to the dementors.

Imagine her soul, all sucked out. Bloody and raw. Imagine her insides, hollowed out and empty.

They're sharpening their knives. Won't be long now. Count it by the way the tides lap against the shore. Almost, almost, almost -

x.

an interlude  
  
(There is a small, blonde boy. His name is Draco Malfoy.

His father does not love him. His mother does.

It is, perhaps, the only redeeming quality between the two of them. Mother and son, similar in their differences.

"Does anybody care?" they cry, "get to the good bit!"

There is a small, blonde boy. His name is Draco Malfoy. He's not like the others. He's different. Sadder. More lost. All...faint yellow stars and paper hearts. Crumbling in the breeze. Vulnerable, yes, easily manipulated!

He doesn't mean to stumble upon the diary.

But he does, he does and fate snaps the red string in half and marks the spot of Draco Malfoy's downfall.)

x.

There is no headmaster to greet them at the sorting ceremony, only a twisted, vicious new deputy. Amycus Carrow, all set and prepared with a vile speech about the mudbloods, oh, and discipline, discipline for the wizard-traitors amongst them. Licks the blood (_hard-bitten, raw_) off his lips and welcomes them to hell.

Where is Snape? Where is the bastard? Yes, they'd all quite like to get their hands on him, the betrayal still stings deep in their veins (silvery hair, beard and wrinkles ill-forgotten) rushing and surging to the surface at the very mention of his name.

Alas! He's something of a recluse now - or so Fred's heard - half-mad, up in his office, locked away with memories and regrets, ranting and ravings and whispers, something of the sort, anyway, it's all just rumours after all and, and, who gives a fuck?

Stricter, now, more divided, more right and wrong and good and bad, more true colours (green and silver) of the people around them. Lines through the sand, soldiers choosing armies, that sort of thing. And them, them - the outsiders, the faces of guilty betrayal and love of filth - cast aside to the shadows and thrown out of existence.

Feel the pulsing rage in their fingertips, white-hot and burning. Them: The Outsiders, on the borderlines of bravery.

Growing in numbers, getting stronger, angrier, so far, so far from freedom -

x.

diary entry number one

hello draco malfoy. it's pleasant to meet you.

my name is tom.

x.

There's an attack in a town near hers - a branch or two out of the way, walking distance, really.

The newspapers read "_only two dead_" and she's sure the adjective "_only_" doesn't quite fit right her, no, it seems too sparkly to describe lives lost.

Gas pipes leaked, a match was lit, a fire happened. That's what they'll tell you. Burned, raged, consumed the town.

Tragic accidents don't happen so neatly, she thinks, and they're near her now. Coming to get her, she imagines, rounding up the mudbloods and killing them one by one -

But of course it's all in her head. They're not, they're not! They seek to kill and kill alone, nothing organised about it, just a play for power and blood that runs thick and red and filthy like mud. It's anyone's game, any ordinary person out on the street, prepared to die for the righteous cause of Tom Riddle and his Merry Men.

Swinging their wands behind their back. Whistling the danse macabre. This is how they murder the good.

(and Hermione isn't good, but she's next, she feels, she's next - )

x.

an interlude 

("Harry," they say, and their faces are red and their bags are packed, "remember what we told you?"

He nods. Quiet boy, really. nothing like his father. Surprising, maybe, or not at all, considering the circumstances.

"Well," finally free, they're finally free, finally, finally, finally - "we're all going on an adventure.")

x.

They write their names on faded paper in invisible ink and pray they don't get caught.

They're only young, you see, not cut out for lives of proper rebels, but there's this stench of rotting plaguing Hogwarts, rotting and prejudice, (and war, of course, but that's always been there) ever since it was taken over by the unambiguously evil; oh, and they have to get rid of it, any way they can.

Propoganda creeps into their lessons like infection. Read between the lines, there's hatred buried deep. Sticks and stones and it doesn't get any less subtle than naming lessons "dark arts."

You know, some of these fifteen year olds have a real gift for murder!

Or so, Fred thinks bitterly, amidst the buzz of the wands that practice for massacre - no, not quite, not yet, they're stuck in slow motion for now, _imperio_ and _obliviate_ \- or something.

It's all in the game, in the clicks of their fingers, shouts behind cupped hands. Follow the leader, purebloods; (and half-bloods too, if the effort is such required) follow the leader into battle and if you die, you die and if you live, you live for injustice.

Not him, not George, not them. The Outsiders. Skipping the rules and heading straight to the finish line, setting out the gunpowder and starting their own wars.

x.

an interlude

(They turn up in a cloud of dust that reminds Lily something of pollution. All the broken bits of life, thrown out into nowhere.

Or, darling, haven't you heard about Floo Powder?

Big Brother's taken it over now. watching. Always watching. can't have that!

"Where are we?" Harry asks, clutching onto his tiny little suitcase with his tiny little hands, voice very nearly cracking. And the answer is simple: a back alley in London where people are only interested in them as potential victims of upcoming robberies.

Down the rabbit hole, they don't say, and instead waste their heavy breaths upon silence.)

x.

She charms her feet.

They don't leave marks on the snow anymore.

Spends Christmas begging her family to run.

x.

an interlude  
  
(How do the _invisibles_ find each other?

Good question. They're working on it. No places to go. A concealment charm everywhere. Can't let Harry wander out of sight and into the arms of -

Oh dear. They prefer not to think about that.

But Sirius and Remus, Sirius and Remus, they're tracking down, tracing steps and counting backwards and they really think they might have hit the mark this time, they really, honestly do. North Star, South Pole, drawings on hands.

Lily and James and Harry. Trying to work out where vanished objects go to.

Wait. They snap their heads back. Other direction. There's a woman watching them.

Caught!)

x.

Home and back again. Round and round and round, spin the wheel of fate and let their lives be filled with something exciting, for once. Something they can do, something to stop the devil's torment and let them stop feeling like idle fools, sitting ducks, ready to be lined up and shot one by one by -

Twist of the mouth. Red, red, _red_. Amycus Carrow smiles - dirty, rotten, yellow teeth - and takes a bow for the crowd. "Hogwarts," he rolls out the word, froths at the mouth with excitement, "is proud to introduce it's new method of discipline. We've got the message from the Minister himself, actually - "

"The crucio curse," his sister interrupts, face drawing into a thin line, "will serve as punishment for the foreseeable future."

An uproar from the crowd, shouts and screams and then deathly silence. Claps from those in green and silver, pale faces for the rest, worry and doubt and bile rising in their throats. They're getting so thin, you see, so thin, wasting away in this damp prison.

Feel the bones in their cheeks and the sorrow in the hollows of their eyes. Feel this death upon them and now - forever now - this torture.

They mouth it over and over, crucio, crucio, crucio. Practice for later.

x.

an interlude

(Wide smiles. Unusual pity. "Don't talk here," she says. Undoes her hood.

"A Weasley?" Good. Better than a Death Eater. Or just another ginger, perhaps, nothing special, no importance, maybe even muggle -

"Only by marriage," a short nod, tip of the hat, "you poor dears, you must be so frightened."

She whisks them away. What other choice do they have but to go with her?)

x.

Something you do not know about Hermione Granger: her parents were born on the same day. Her father says - oh, she doesn't quite know if it's true, he does tend to exaggerate - he fell in love with her mother during sunset, hands clutched together, watching the rise and fall of the day. Rose? Pressed together, she explains to her daughter, with a flutter of the hands and a half-twirl, the blink of eyelashes, the brown of his eyes, all those silly little things.

Hermione believes in love, (true or not, she's semi-wavering) yes, it's a reasonable concept. There's logical evidence - facts and numbers written in code - to suggest it's reality. Love and war, though, what a paradox! A puzzle for the ages, for the hard-done by geniuses of this world. They've never figured out how to fit squares perfectly into circles, have they?

Love, love, love. It's all about _protection_, isn't it? From the shadows that lurk in the night, infected hands creeping onto sleeping victims, masked-faces and flashes of green, always green, it's always green inside her head.

(and the spell is coming along nicely now, thank you for asking)

"Obliviate."

She mutters the word to herself until her lips are raw. Not yet though, not yet, give it time, she needs time -

Ready soon, she thinks, almost done.

x.

an interlude 

("Stay," she tells them, coffee poured and voice soft, "join the Order."

No, no, no order for them anymore, they're all messy ~ quiet ~ rebellions and about finding lost things. Remus and Sirius, where are they?

"We'll have to turn you down," James tells her, but not before he begs for a map to their friends and the stars, "but we've got something to tell them, something important - "

"We can't trust them," Lily says immediately. Cautious in her words, cautious in her ways. "Not everything."

They look at Harry. At their son. He bites his lip. He's only twelve.

"Bits and pieces then," James runs a hand through his hair, adjusts his glasses. "Pass on a message, Molly, would you?"

She nods her head and then frowns. "Will Harry be...travelling with you?"

They turn their heads. Pause. Think. Look at him. He's too young. Fragile. Like his bones are glass and they'll break -

"It's up to him," James puts in. Lily cups her voice in her throat, like she's prepared to voice her opinion, but changes her mind at the last minute and nods along with him. Clips the bonds and lets her son have his say.

"Harry's choice," she grips her chair, grips her husband's hand, "always Harry's choice.")

x.

_Here is the choice_:

They put a boy in front of him, ask for a commitment.

One word, two syllables. _Speak, boy!_ Sparks from wands and unbearable pain - not his own, though, not his own - this must be how they build their soldiers. White-hot, flashes, what Fred's been told. And him - the perpetrator, the puppet-master and the puppet-strings, making them dance because he has to, because he has to -

_Here is the alternative_:

Join him.

_Here is the twist_:

There is no choice.

Fred sinks to his knees and surrenders. A handful join him - his brother, them together - but the rest stay standing, praying they won't be picked.

If they are, they'll do it anyway.

These are the rules of the game.

x.

diary entry number ten   
_  
let it out, let it out, let it out_

x.

In this version of reality, she picks Iowa, America to send her parents.

She's not entirely sure why.

x.

an interlude  
  
(They hide him in cupboards when the doors are knocked upon. Let him out when they're not. Feed him scones. Pretend it'll all be fine, because Molly's good at that - excellent, actually - and she always has been.

But -

Charlie is in Romania and sometimes he forgets to write and she does worry, dear, she does, more than anything and Percy and Fred and George and Ginny and Ron are all at Hogwarts and heaven knows it's not safe there anymore and the image of You-Know-Who is burned on the back of her eyelids, writhing and whispering -

_Molly, Molly, Molly._

Isn't it hard, looking after the Chosen One?)

x.

He doesn't realise until Easter, (of course he couldn't, the letters are all tapped and tricked, his mother has to make them darlingly fake) doesn't realise that they've got Harry Potter living in their home.

Most wanted, most famous, nothing like Fred imagined, not at all. Some kind of hero, that had been his fantasy, charming and witty, wise beyond his years (for a twelve year old, anyway) some kind of idol to lead them into battle and to win, of course, to win. The boy is shy, curls away from interaction, blushes when he speaks. Bit of a Ron, George yawns one night, scared of his own shadow.

"He's never had any friends," their mother hisses at them once, while Harry is in the shower, "don't pull any of your - " here, she hums, trying to find the appropriate word, "with him!"

And so it goes, for Easter. Dodging footsteps around the one who's supposed to save them all and tossing back firewhisky with George. Pretending they're not stuck in an infinite loop of predictability and pretending that they'll be out of this mess soon enough, soon enough.

Percy studies for his NEWTS, (is he going to take them at all?) Bill and their parents keep secrets from them all and always catch them when they're eavesdropping. Molly makes tea every afternoon and she's pretending too, it's obvious, it's all obvious.

Harry and Ron, making friendships that'll last forever, (until they die) Ginny, wandering into trouble and just - floating -

This is the Weasley family. This is their refugee. The boy they're trying to save, who is supposed to save them himself.

None of them sleep at night.

x.

an interlude

(How do lost artefacts find each other?  
_  
With the swell of the full moon, with the tremble of hands and the animals inside them. Calls to the wild. Bonds between brothers._

They wake up in the woods, the way they used to be, many lifetimes ago. Small. And they remember, they remember, they remember -

"Sirius," James croaks, rolls over on his side, "Remus, oh god."

They blink. Look at each other through hazy eyes, Splinter all the memories and piece them back together. "James," Remus is the first to speak, first to choke down the sob in his throat, "James, it's you."

They are fragments. Insignificant to space and time. Broken and unimportant. Or, you know, _something_.)

x.

The problem is not wiping it all away. She knows that well, it goes: blank slate, blank slate, blank slate and if she concentrates really hard, their identities will just wash away, like words in the sand meant to be erased.

No, it is reclaiming them, from the Land of Things Lost, when the time comes, (ten, twenty, thirty years) when the war ends, (if the war ends) when they are safe, when they are safe, when they are safe.

It is diving into the abyss and finding what she took. Can she do it? Hermione's an intelligent girl, of course, but she's had the scraps of an education, old textbooks stolen from dustbins and such. Not enough to hollow out their insides and stuff it all back in, all the bits and pieces, not enough to summon the darkness and take it out in the first place.

Imagine them, imagine her parents. Pretty smiles and carefree voices. What's best, what's best?

No, no, which is worse?

x.

an interlude  
  
(It's a buzz and a hum and a static shock of electricity.

Connected by rope and chains. Tugging, tugging, tugging.

"Get out of my head," he whispers, screams, clenches down upon his tongue until there is blood.

The voice smiles. Licks it's lips and purrs, makes the same caterwauling wail it always does. Red, red, red as the devil and black as death. "No," says the demon lord - Voldemort, Voldemort, oh he knows that name! - and Harry flickers back to normality.)

x.

There's this -

endless cycle of pain -

building up and up and -

Look at him laugh, look at him joke! Look at the whites of his eyelids, look at the marks the cruciatus left underneath his skin! These broken boys, these broken men and their scarlet women, - scarlet with blood, of course, blood and pain for there's no other art - look at them weep for the spring and the end of suffering not yet arrived.

"Soon." Fate promises; with a liar's touch.

Hear the banging of the drums in their heads, hear the rhythms of the march. Fresh victims, raw blood. None dead, so far. Not on the first years, not on the second years, not yet, not yet, (Ginny-and-Ron) soon, he fears, soon enough for them.

x.  
  
an interlude

(Regulus Black, dead on high tide. Swept out to sea with the living and the not. And his locket, his locket a fake.

Which leaves them somewhere on the chess board with moves to play but nowhere to turn.

Back to the basics for them then - Sirius and Remus, James and Lily - back to the house where it all began.)

x.

"You've been skipping school," her dad says one night, with a disapproving look and a stretch of the hand for hers, "why?"

She bites her lip. It's not good there, not for her, not for the other girls there, (witch!) unsafe, that's it, all topsy turvy and death on the horizon for someone, someone.

"You know why." Insolent girl! She should learn to hold her tongue! "I can't dad, it's not safe, they're everywhere - "

He raises his eyebrows, takes on a confused but impatient expression. "They're not after you, Hermione, you must realise that, it's all just a game to them. You're fine, I promise," he pats her shoulder, ruffles her hair in his patronising way, "you're fine here. Just...stay safe on the streets and you heard what your mother said, get that nice girl to walk home with you and they won't hurt you. I swear."

She plays the good-girl role, nods her head, tells him she'll go back. Sure dad, with a nervous smile and a lick of the lips. That's it, that's it, it's all safe and good and well.

(does she know what they do to liars in the world out there?)

x.

an interlude

("Where is it?" He rips apart the drawers, spills out all the fragments of his dead brother. "Where is it? _Where is it_?"

"Sirius," Lily chides timidly. If somebody squinted, they might be able to see the wrinkles barely beginning on her face, the cracks beginning to show in her body. Tired, tired, tired - "Sirius, stop!"

He leaves the drawer alone, wild-eyed and breathless. "Where's the bastard?"

"The horcux?" she's confused, for a bare moment, but she realises soon enough, when he makes for the door and for the cowering figure in the corner of the hallway.

She hears the laughter. They all hear the laughter, it echoes through the house, through the walls and windows, both Kreacher and Sirius, the same, maniacal laugh.

"He left Kreacher with it!" The shrieking continues, the same words, over and over again, "not you, not you, not you - "

Sirius' hands, around his house elf's neck. Wrapping and squeezing, clinging on. "Tell me where it is, you fucking - "

"Sirius!" Her wand darts out from behind her back, her hands trembling with fright, "Sirius, no, not like this!"

He lets go. Breathes out. There are red marks around his elf's neck. They will be black and blue in a few days time. "What did you do?"

"Kreacher did not need help from a mudblood - "

Sirius growls, inches forward. "Shut the fuck up," he says finally, mouth curled, "don't call her that, understand? Now tell me where the damned locket is."

One shaking, tiny finger left out, pointing towards the oven.

They both dive at once and suddenly, suddenly, they have -

They have a horcrux.)

x.

There's a scar running underneath his lip and blood pumping in his veins that's just urging to be spilt.

Is this - oh, is this - what rebellion feels like?

This is how you make the man. This is how you make him love the game, love the war. Won't admit it, no, he won't admit it, but he'll crave it it, yes, crave it, the aching in his bones and the back of his skull, always there, yes, always there.

He's still laughing though, he's smiles on their faces and humour deep inside of him, something dripping and leaking, all this apathy, this infectious laughter. Don't care, he tells them, just don't care, don't care, don't care, don't, don't! George joins to his beat too, carries the tune, puts down his wand and faces the crucio.

And they join in. More and more, not all, but enough, (to get hurt, to stumble and fall on their knees) to prove, to prove their way of thinking. What's the word? Solidarity, yes that's it, a form of it anyway, something close, something looming upon it.

Nearer and nearer by the hour now, breaking their chains and falling into faith -

x.

an interlude

(When Harry dreams, he dreams of death.

Small hands tugging at wood and women's screams. Red hair - like his mother's - and a man who makes bright lights sparkle. Everyone around him, empty and still and lifeless.

Fate tugs the strings. The scene changes. It's trees now, the heady scent of pine and a woman's laughter, thick and strong and angry. Long waits. Jeering. And green, and green and green and -

Here is the chosen one. He lies awake in his bed. Alone and scared.)

x.

It is a day hot and sticky with sweat when they announce the census.  
_  
Come one, come all! Mudbloods, prepare for execution, for imprisonment, for worse, perhaps, for worse! Spilling of the blood, purification of the rotting - the dead, stinking waste of the wizarding community!_

Oh, they're rounding them all up. Finding them in their homes. Got this list, you see, and they're checking it twice, got these tricky little charms that help to find people who aren't supposed to be, oh, living, and these tricky little charms to make them vanish.

_Better run, better run_, Hermione Granger! Better hide her parents, better perform the final rites, before they burst in and steal them all away. No traces. No lines of blood on the floor. Does she think they care?

She's a wonder, that Hermione Granger! And her parents too...you know, you know -

_What are their names again?_

x.  
  
diary entry number thirteen

do you understand, draco?

now is the time.

x.

They're drawing a close on the school year. Counting down the days on the calendar until their escape. They're scarred and bruised, these children, see, all worn and weary from torture and sick of it all, and ready to go home. To be freed. To see their families - what's left, then, what's left - once more.

The clock ticks and they earn themselves more trouble. For their smart mouths. Fred and George in particular, fond of this trap. Smarting off, laughing when they're not supposed to be. Lands them with the crucio, lands them with bruises that sting and scars too deep, but they don't mind, no, why would they, when it's all in the name of defiance?

x.  
  
an interlude

(There is a small boy. He is walking along the corridor alone at night. Is he supposed to be?

The floors creak and hiss: _yes._

He has a purpose. Some sort of goal. His eyes are red and gold and black and if you squint, you'll see the devil himself -

Lord, lord, save their souls!

He knows the serpent language. Knows the path to go.

This is death, they whisper, as the Chamber of Secrets is opened.)

x.

She's running -

Haven't you heard? They're out for her, ready to lock her up and throw away the key, ready to give her the kiss and let out the blood, all that dirty, stinking blood.

It's not safe for a mudblood. It's not safe for a black girl. The streets are rotten and rotting, the pavements are littered with bad men, muggle and wizard, and it's not safe, doesn't she understand? Simply not safe!

They'll rip her to pieces, tear her to shreds. All she's got are her clothes, clothes and a wand as some form of shallow protection.

Let's hope they don't catch her.

x.

an interlude 

(They've been carrying it around for a month now. They're not in Grimmauld Place anymore. Not that there aren't enough protection spells, oh no, it's just that it's the first place you see, the first place Bellatrix Lestrange would look for her cousin.

It's heavy in their heads and on their necks. at night, sometimes -

Lily thinks she can hear it whispering. James clutches her hand and tells her to go back to sleep.

They talk to Harry, too, of course they do, he's their son, isn't he? Through the looking glass - it was Peter's, once - a reflection of him, of their boy. Getting on fine, apparently. A little lonely. Made a friend, Molly's boy. makes sense, that.

What do they do? Oh, they'd love to return to him, love to, but they're out saving the world, you see - so he doesn't have to - and it all comes down to one thing:

_How do they get rid of a horcrux?_)

x.

Opening night. Grand tour of the murder-house. Same speech by Amycus, same leering grin, same sense of impending doom.

And then -

x.

an interlude  
  
(_Here is what nobody expected_:

A body in the bathtub. Eyes rolled back to the heavens. Face as white as ash. Lips red raw and bitten and dead.

Skin clung back. Smile upon his face. Suicide? No, no, there's no sign of it, no sign of anything at all, except -

His eyes. They're open. So bright, so shiny. Amber and orange and yellow and red. No! Don't think about that. Focus, look for clues, some reason he died, some sign he was -

"Murdered!" The word slips through the hallways. Round everyone's ears. Not the Death Eaters, not them, the boy was a Slytherin from a respectable family, one aligned with the dark lord himself.

Not the Order then, either, not those foolish rebels, they wouldn't stoop to murdering children - or would they? - no, no, completely off limits.

Something sinister, something sinister at work. The great unknown, some hellish beast, some peculiar demon within the castle, someone, something!

Oh dear. They'd better find them quick. These sorts of things tend to reoccur.)

x.

Tighten the shackles. Rough her up a bit. Remember, remember, she deserves to be here, deserves all of this.

Her name? Hermione Granger. Been on the database for a while now, slipped through their fingers like sand. Oh, she's only a girl, how did it take so long to get her locked up?

No, no, it didn't, she's here, she's always been here. The public knows - they're aware - of the problem at hand and that it's patched and fixed up. The Ministry is kind. The Ministry is good and safe and working well, for their protection, only for their protection. All the mudbloods are out of the way. Being taken care of. Can't hurt anybody -

They have a list in the department - the one that handles the muggleborn problem, it's a new thing, recently set up - of the escaped ones; the ones they never managed to track down. Made for their eyes only, oh and the people they employ to catch them.

This is what has happened, (this is what the public ought to believe) this is what they have reported in the newspapers: _all mudbloods - oops, sorry, muggleborns - have reported to the Ministry (good, safe, loving) for questioning and are now in custody, ready to answer for their crimes._

What about the girl? Tie her up, throw her in with the rest. The trial will be tomorrow, supposedly, they're quite efficient in this place.

It's simple though, really, because everybody here is guilty. Everybody is guilty, because the Ministry says so and of course, of course; the _Ministry never lies_!

x.

an interlude

(_Hiss hiss hiss_ in his ear.

What's that? Oh, nothing. It's all black in his head now, all gone away. Nothing . Yes, that's it, that's the word, oh, exactly!

Did -

Did Draco do something _bad_?)

x.

They're huddled together in Gryffindor Common Room - though there are Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws in their ranks - warm blankets and fire roaring, awkward loneliness filling up the room and making it pop.

"Somebody died," Katie says suddenly, one hand gripping her chair, "somebody fucking died."

Fred stares at the floor. He doesn't speak.

"It wasn't them," it's a third-year that pipes up, a Hufflepuff, "it was a Slytherin boy, it can't have been them."

"Makes a right bloody change." Nobody laughs at George, they just continue darting their eyes around the room and expecting something to jump out, to slit their throat, to murder them there and then. He clears his throat. "So who then?"

Everybody exchanges glances. Who? If not them, _who_? If not you-know-who, if not his followers -

It's the darkness, the shadows and the dust. He understands now, oh, that it's everywhere!

And how, how are they to get it out?

x.

an interlude 

(They're in some cabin, somewhere. Well-guarded with magic. Nobody in, nobody out.

If Lily listens closely, she can hear Sirius scream Remus' name. Undoubtedly, not in a negative way.

The time ticks and ticks and the horcrux is still on the kitchen table. She doesn't listen. James told her not to. She mustn't let it sink into her head.

_\- dirty bitch whore mudblood abandoned her own son -_

See? Things are normal now. They will be once they destroy the horcrux. Maybe they'll see Harry again. Maybe, maybe. There'll be four more to go, then, and You-Know-Who himself.

_\- think you can kill me? -_

She grips James' hand. He smiles at her blearily, in his own sleepy haze.

Maybe they'll get rid of the horcrux sometime soon.

It's been months. Sometimes she thinks they don't even try. That they're content to let it be. To let it say those things and mock her. To keep her apart from her son -

She digs her nails into James' palm.

But she didn't mean to. She didn't mean to. She didn't mean -)

x.

"You, Miss Hermione Granger stand accused of," tap, tap, the feathery quill on the desk, "theft of magical property, false impersonation and, oh _dearie_ me, endangerment of wizards and witches."

A long, thinly stretched smile. Pink nails outstretched, joined together in a faux-severe manner.

"Well, Miss Granger, these are quite some grave accusations, especially for a girl as young as you are. Would you like to start at the beginning?"

No elaboration. Hermione shifts in her seat, bites her lip and tries not to cry, not to scream.

"From whom did you steal your wand, Miss Granger?"

Don't let them in, says a voice inside her head, say nothing, say nothing.

"Runcorn!"

The woman turns to the left, beckons forth a lofty looking man standing alone.

"Runcorn, would you like to present the evidence? That is to say, the wand in question?"

Her wand, her wand! In some great sweaty brute's fingers, twiddly and thin, ready to be snapped in half, or worse, directed at her.

"Miss Granger, where did you happen upon his wand?"

"Ollivander's." Oh, see she's trembling now! All scared! Backed into a corner and not prepared to face the punishment, not prepared to give completely either. "It chose me."

The woman shakes her head so vigorously her hat (vivacious pink and outstandingly woolly) very nearly falls off. "Wands, Miss Granger, choose wizards. And you, by all accounts and definitions, are not a wizard."

She turns the page and tuts. "Performing spells, I see. Incredibly dangerous for someone of your type."

"I am a wizard!" Desperate now, no hope to cling onto. "I am, I am, I'll prove it!"

A squeaky cough breaks out. Then again, another one. The woman clears her throat, swallows some of her water and then refocuses her stare. "Are you done, Miss Granger?"

The question is met with uneasy silence. Another smile breaks out on her face, longer this time, very nearly encouraging. "I think it's time you accept you cannot prove something there is no evidence for. Something that is highly unfounded, because it is simply not true."

She taps her quill against the desk again. The black ink leaks onto the file.

"Now," she says, in a transparently fake attempt at kindness, "for crimes like these, we have not been lenient! I've seen men and women put away in Azkaban, some even sentenced to the kiss."

Kiss, kiss, kiss. End it all! Put her out of her misery! No, no, let her live, let her live!

"Considering your age," sickly sweet, like butter, melt in the mouth and poisonous, "we have decided on a better remedy to this. You shall remain under observation - with us, of course - and begin treatment. I happen to know some fine young gentleman who may be able to cure your delusions. And at the end of it all, oh," here, she dabs away a fake tear, closes the award winning speech, "we might even release you back into the muggle world, if you get better. That's where you belong."

Clutch her face. Scratch her eyes out. Do something, anything -

"I don't," she curves her nails into her fist, digs, digs, digs and hopes for the blood to bleed red, "I don't, I don't!"

Smiles and sunshine, all the more of it. False and shimmery and bright. Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit!

Dolores Umbridge blinks. Looks up. "Why are the lights in here so bright?" She licks her lips. "Oh, I'm feeling rather faint - "

Runcorn screws up his nose. Glances at her. Glances at everyone and -

Bang goes the chandelier!

Hermione is shaking now, Umbridge is clutching her head in her hands and screaming. It's all a panic, all broken glass and red-hot rage and fear, just a little, over a fallen light and a fourteen year old girl.

"Well," it's a chirpy voice, from where Runcorn was stood, except he's not anymore, "I don't think that's necessary."

Umbridge stops screaming.

"Then again," the woman - bright pink hair, slim build, that's all Hermione can make out - shrugs her shoulders, takes a step closer, "I guess I could be wrong."

A matter of seconds later, Umbridge's head slumps to the table and stays there.

Nymphadora Tonks - closely followed by Hermione Granger - begins to run.

"I planned that!" Tonks shouts behind her shoulder as she chases the lift, "I drugged her tea!"

Darkness envelops them, humming and singing back towards the courtroom, away, away, away. Empty and cold. No light, no light. Bad memories - don't relive them - relics of the past, things she'd like to forget.

Tonks pulls out her wand. "Expecto Patronum!"

A white phantom bursts from her wand, - silvery, silvery light - and chases off the beings, devouring them into nothingness.

Almost there, almost there! They ought to pick up the pace, people are hot on their trail; oh, you can hear the stampede of jury members rushing towards them!

That's it! They're there now, the lift, the safety, shutting the door tightly and by themselves.

Two sighs.

Hermione feels like collapsing.

"Um," Tonks fiddles with her ridiculously over-large suit, "I guess now is a good time to mention I'm part of a rescue mission."

The lift begins to suck them upward.

"You're actually not the only one," she presses a few buttons, "there's many other muggleborns we're planning to save today. We've got a place, for you and your family."

The button chimes. The lift grinds to a halt.

"Nice touch with the chandelier," she grins, suddenly, shakes her hair back, "pretty impressive, wandless and all."

Hermione nods and doesn't say anything.

They get out quickly, footsteps hurrying across the hallway to some unknown destination.

"Mad-Eye!" Tonks calls out, to no reply. "Mad-Eye!"

And suddenly, a group of wild-eyed teenagers and adults come charging along the corridor like them, collapsing against the wall.

"Alright," Tonks raises her voice, and with it her hair seems to darken slightly, "alright, stay here and keep calm!"

A young-ish woman joins them, calm enough, but still ever-checking the space behind her.

"Emmeline," Tonks checks her watch, gives a half-forced, half-genuine smile, "where's Mad-Eye and the others?"

"Hestia's already gone," Emmeline waves her hands to her group - about fifteen in all - nudging them closer together, "ran into some trouble with one of the Ministry, I gather."

Hermione can feel the clock tick inside her chest. Near to being discovered, near to being thrown back in there, locked away and forgotten about. Too much at stake, too much, too much!

"And um," Tonks lowers her voice, but not enough, for Hermione can still hear, "did she get the records?"

Emmeline nods. "As far as I know."

Crash! round the corner. A skinny young lad (early twenties, dotted about) comes skittering past, into view.

Some of the others draw their wands, but Tonks hushes them.

"Wotcher Bill," she chews the bottom of her lip, "where's Mad-Eye?"

He pants and leans against the wall, one hand instinctively running through his hair. "Caught up with Yaxley," one eye rakes over the lot of them, "you better go, they'll be here soon. They've got bugs everywhere, my dad said."

"Right," Tonks raises her voice, "those of you who can apparate, do so now!

One of the older ones, a man with a red (blood-red) scar on his right cheek steps forward. His arms are folded, eyebrows raised. "Where to?"

"Oh, um," Tonks pauses, skates over her words a little, "the Burrow. You'll be safe there, for now. It's in - " she hums and hisses, trying to remember, "- fuck. Emmeline?"

"Ottery St. Catchpole," Emmeline supplies, "get your families first, then get there. We'll meet you there and sort out a safe house, once everything else - " she glances at Tonks, "has been fixed up and put out of the way."

Hesitantly, some of the adults begin to pop (it's not a pop, really, more of a swish and a whirl) out of sight and reality. One, two, three! Half of them gone now, seven awkward teenagers left standing by, no way to get back home, not even ruby slippers or magic wizards.

"Side-along will do the trick," Bill says roughly, "though I suppose we'll have to return for the others - "

"Right then," Tonks says cheerfully, grabbing Hermione's arm, "where to?"

She stutters and stumbles. No place to call home, how sad, how bad, how very much her own fault! Parents in Iowa, parents who don't call or write or exist beyond a faintest dream, who have her name of the tips of their tongues but can't quite reach.

"The safe place," Hermione fumbles for her grip, "just there."

Oh, but she hasn't realised, she must not have - in these times, this war; _there is no safe place_!

x.

an interlude

(He can hear it in his sleep. It _grinds and churns_ in the back of his head.

It calls: Draco, Draco, Draco, in drones and whines, squeaks and whistles. Sometimes he can hear it. Sometimes he can't.

Cogs and wheels. Knives scraping and rusting. Has he gone mad?

There's dirt and mud and grit underneath his fingernails and grey fog in his head. What did he do? Do you know?

_What will he do next_?)

x.

"All students are to be submitted," McGonagall hitches her glasses up her nose and gives a drawn-out sigh, a sufferer's sigh, "for questioning, with regards to our current circumstance. Under Professor Snape's orders. Everyone will report to both Professor Carrows at some point over the next week or so."

There is a loud groan from the common room, whispers and mutters hidden in the corners of it, an unpleasantness making itself known.

Loud and hostile. Won't back down. Oh, but don't blame them, it's in their motto: chivalry and nerve, remember, remember?

(someday, perhaps, it will get them all slaughtered)

"Now," she regains her stiff composure, stretched out and weary and unwilling, "Gryffindor has been selected to go first. Working it's way up - first years to seventh years, you'll all be called for..." she pauses, shuffles her notice, "interrogation."

Fred rolls his eyes and looks at his brother, who is clenching the edge of his seat.

"Professor," George smiles, just a bit, forced and broken, "surely they don't think any of us did it?"

Of course they do, of course, who can they trust? Could be any of them, light or dark or grey morality, any of them. If one of them snapped. If one of them picked up their wand in rage. If one of them said the words and took them back too late, after the green, after the bang, after Domnall Nathair had been hit and after he had fallen. After he had withered away.

It could have been too late, too late, for any of them.

"Mr Weasley," McGonagall hesitates here, lets a bony hand rest on the parchment beside her, "if it is not insolent of me to say so," here, she looks disgruntled, and perhaps a little sorrowful, "I no longer play much part in the decision making of this school."

She doesn't. It's all cheats and liars and fools, nowadays. People with hands stained red and wicked smirks and high-up positions; with the Ministry or You-Know-Who.

Not that there's any noticeable difference between the two.

No room for purity, (ironic!) no room for logic. No room for jokes, nor for any sense of light-heartedness.

No room for them, no room for them no longer.

x.

an interlude

(His bones crack with weariness. The bed rocks. His dream changes.

Back home again. Back to Grimmauld Place. The boy that was, the shadow.

_Sirius Black._

Lanky and spotty, not so much tainted. cowering in fear. And, mother, his mother -

With a frying pan. Boxing the house elf around the ears. Pulling out the kitchen knife, ignoring his pleas.

The elf gives a wail, a shout, as close to an act of defiance as possible. No, a high pitched whine, that's it, loud and sharp. Inside his head, ringing in his ears, inside his head!

"_Let's have some fun_," Walburga Black says, and laughs.

Flashes of silver. A tiny scream, a squeak, a bubble in a throat. Stop, stop, make it stop, make the fucking noise stop, stop, stop -

He closes his eyes. Lets it fade to black. And red, splashes of red, dripping and leaking and spilling and staining the floor.

"There is death in this house," his mother says gravely. Her eyes -

They've changed. Not grey, _not grey_, blue like the ocean and the sea.

And green for the seaweed, for entanglement and choking and -

"Dead bodies get washed away here," the eyes are brown now. Brown like his brother's. "They wanted the locket."

His feet are muddy and wet. This is not Grimmauld Place. Somewhere else. Somewhere fake, somewhere pretending.

"Sirius," Regulus touches his neck, "Sirius, brother."

Sirius struggles to move. The chain is weighing him down. Heavy guilt, heavy burdens.

"You were always such a Gryffindor," Regulus smiles his dead man's smile, "always fighting."

He turns his head. Looks towards the cliff, towards the caves.

"This is where I died," he says sombrely. The waves lap against the shore. "It's pretty, isn't it?"

Sirius looks up, neck straining against the silver. He can't see anything. Just mist, only mist, grey smoke and fog and clouds enveloping them.

"I didn't congratulate you," Regulus pulls him closer, steadies him against the tide, "on your relationship. The werewolf. Remus. I hope you're happy."

Sirius chokes. Swallows the lump in his throat. "You grew up."

"Sirius," Regulus is pale now, pale as the waves against the shore and the sea foam, "I'm not real."

He smiles again, this time brighter, lighter, warmer. "And," he adds, "it's been almost fifteen years."

"I'm sorry." Sorry, sorry, he's always sorry. "For everything."

There's a crash and a bang and the fog is fading now. The sky is getting whiter and whiter.

"There's no time," Regulus lifts the chain, but cannot tug it free, "you have to destroy it."

Sirius' voice grows desperate, fading in the wind. "We don't know how," he says and feels like an impatient child. Waiting for guidance. For instruction. For freedom.

"I wish I had gotten into Gryffindor," Regulus continues and they're wasting time, look, it's slipping through their fingers, "I always envied you."

He stops. Stares downwards. They're in deep water now. Almost covered, almost drowning.

"Remember the knife mother had?" The kitchen knife. The butcher knife. Slaughter and laughter. sirius remembers. "It reminds me of that. the sword."

"Sword?" Sirius is confused, but he's crumbling now, him and the horcrux, and Regulus, his brother, Regulus too. "Don't leave me!"

The waves sing: 'we always do' and then Regulus and they are one.

And Sirius is waking. slipping, stumbling. The lights are bright, too bright and warm and -

He turns to Remus, half-awake, barely-sane.

"I have so much to tell you," he says.)

x.

They're all so packed together.

Thirty of them, all in one house, not counting Molly and her husband, not counting the ghost in the attic.

The house is full. Bursting at the seams. With people, with anger, with frustration.

(and she starts to hear things)

"You have the files?" Molly Weasley's voice, cramped and low, echoing off the nightly silence. "Have you asked - "

The next is muffled. The files, the files! The ones they all seem so concerned with. Something important, something precious. What, what?

"Where's - "

"Keep your voice down!" And Molly, sweet Molly, seems angry for the first time. "He's - "

All these fragments, all these missing pieces. If only Hermione could put them back together again.

It's awfully dreadful to hide secrets. Lock them away, store them for safety. It doesn't concern her, of course, it doesn't, it doesn't but it concerns the war and the war concerns her.

_If only it could all go away and never come back_!

x.

an interlude  
  
("Where is it?" She's anxious. giddy. over, over, one step closer to getting it over with!

'Getting rid of me so soon?' the locket calls.

But she can block it out, she can always block it out -

"Dumbledore had it," James ruffles his hair, "before he - "

They cling closer together. Never letting go. They've been through too much. Too much.

"It's probably at Hogwarts now," Sirius says, "but it's been taken over by Death Eaters. Snape. The Carrows. That sort of scum."

He sneers. Lily tries her hardest not to cry. Not to show emotion. Doesn't care. What? She doesn't care - she doesn't stop fucking asking her about it alright? -

"Well, we're not going to break in, are we?" James stops. takes a deep breath, stuffs the hand - the one that's not currently clutching Lily - into his pocket. "Sirius, please tell me you're not planning a heist into one of the most guarded places in the wizarding world right now?"

Sirius paces. "What if," he speaks slowly. Slowly! They're not children. "What if, it wasn't us?")

x.

"I've been planning a prank," he lounges on his chair, stretches out an arm, "I think the place could do with some cheering up."

"Nice," George grins, as much as he can bear, and leans backward, "along the lines of?"

Fred shrugs. His arms feel heavy with weight. "Usual," they're lacking in inspiration, nowadays, "bang and a firework maybe."

"What about," George adjusts his head, spells the letters in the air with his fingers, "Potter Rocks!"

He mimes an explosion.

"Maybe they'll work it out," Fred says, chucking a pillow at his brother, "that he's you know - "

"Nah," George chuckles briefly, closes his eyes, "too much of a reach. Besides, I bet Mum's got a whole system in place."

Fred snorts. "Probably mothering him too much. Making him tea - "

"Feeding him fudge - "

"Would The Chosen One fit on a Christmas Sweater?"

They grin in unison.

"Potter Rocks?"

"Potter Rocks."

x.

an interlude  
  
(He bends down. Whispers in her ear.

"Do you think a sword would stop me?"

Tangles a hand in her red, red hair. Draws lines on her cheek.

"Try again," his voice slits through the air, "guess again, Lily Evans."

Guess again. Guess again. Guess again.

She wakes in a cold sweat.

The world around her is dark.)

x.

She's by the sea in France now. Hurried away from it all.

Too crowded. Too inevitable. The heavy burden of suspicion too much to bear.

His name is Ted and her name is Andromeda and they're Tonks' parents, but they're in hiding, see, because Ted is a muggleborn and Andromeda used to be Bad and oh, it's all caught up and tangled!

Not just her, not just her. Dean Thomas and his mother. Shy and tall, black like her, windswept by war but trying to tug it through.

Dean. Dean. She thinks she can tell him things. Whisper in his ear. Let the secrets grow. But she can never be too hasty, you see, never too hasty, because they're all out to get her, they are, they are!

And what, what are the Order doing? Guarding their files under lock and key. Spilling their blood - common blood, unimportant blood - for mysteries, for the special, secret things that they'll never dare tell them. Not ending the war. Not ending the war, they could, they could!

"They don't care about us," her eyes are on the waves, up and over and out again, the rocks weathered and weary, "they don't care at all."

Dean stops. He looks back. Searches for his mother, for Ted, for Andromeda. No, no presence. None here, today. "What will you do?"

The sun winks from the distance. Barely a glimpse, barely a spark. It's verging on Winter, at the border's break.

What can she do? What can she do? She's little, - only a small thing - barely a survivor, and in hiding too.

"We're going to end the war," she says, and laughs at the frivolity of it all.

x.

diary entry number twenty

_do you hear it calling draco?_

do you hear me?

x.

His fork twists into his meat. The scar - from the morning torture routine -aches.

Some part of him says: scratch it, or peel it off, but he supposes that's just his self-destructive tendencies.

"Ready Freddie?"

George grins. Stretches out his also injured hands (black and blue and bruised) and mutters numbers under his breath.

Fred looks up from his plate. The air near Amycus Carrow is shimmering faintly. Like tiny diamonds glittering in the distance. Shimmering. Shimmering.

Pop!

A pink spark erupts, like a firework, whizzing past Alecto Carrow's head and narrowly missing.

She stands up, startled, points one chubby finger towards the restless pink blur.

"Amycus," she hisses, eyes wide and bright, "Amycus!"

He grunts through his food, before turning to face her.

He too, gets a look of shock bestowed upon his face.

They're orange now, orange and blue, whizzing and fizzing around the hall and captivating everyone's attention.

Finally! A collision, a bang! Ringing in their ears and on their brain, squealing and screaming from students and staff.

Amycus is very red in the face by this point, shaking one grubby fist and barely breathing. "What - "

Another collision! They shatter together, bind and break in some places to form their letters: _ S_, as planned.

Some people clap, some hoot and cheer. There's anger too, muttering and whispers, even shouts of rage.

Fred picks up his fork and resumes eating.

x.

an interlude

("Hurry inside," Molly draws the blinds, shuts the door, "they watch everything."

Arthur smiles. Waves at them and adjusts his glasses. "He's in the other room."

Lily rushes out immediately, heart aching and longing to see her son. James makes his way after her slowly, giving a nod to Sirius and Remus.

"We've got," Sirius scratches his stubble, inches closer to Remus, "something to discuss."

Remus twitches. They won't like it, no, of course they won't. Won't like it at all. War's casualties. War's _dirty gritty things_.

"We need something in Hogwarts," he begins, "but we can't - we can't get in there, obviously."

Tripping and stumbling now. Shy little Remus, with the st-uttering and sl-ipping on his words.

"And we were thinking - " Sirius continues for him, smooth and charming Sirius, "of using people who can. people who are."

Molly turns to him. Wide-eyed, mouth pursed. "My children," she says, "you want my children."

"Not just yours," Sirius cuts in, brutally honest, slick and sharp, "any that'll go. The Order's children."

Remus nods, half-eager. "They're the next revolution."

Next. Next, next, next. Because the cycle continues and never ends -

"What - " Molly is white as ash, fingers curling, ears pricked on end, "is so very important that you'll risk them? Their lives?"

Her eyes flash. Lips move quickly. Determined. Headstrong. Fire bubbling and burning, itching to get out -

Sirius stops. Twists a strand of his hair in his hands. "It'll help end the war."

Lies. Lies. Not proven. Founded on dreams. He bites his tongue. Stops the truth spilling out.

"It's the sword," Remus cuts in. His hands are trembling. "Godric's sword."

Molly turns. Lets her eyes flutter shut briefly. "You know - " her voice cracks on the word. Tired, tired, tired. She wipes her hands on her dishcloth. "A child died there. Last month."

She raises her voice. "And you want to my children to do what? Steal some sword? With the people that are running it now? They come home with cuts and bruises and I know it's not right there, I know, I know - "

She heaves great heavy breaths. And then tiny little ones. Gasping out of her. there are tears sparkling. Of threatening to be, at any rate.

Remus and Sirius look at each other, not knowing what to say.

"It's a lot to ask," Remus decides upon finally, "but we think it'll be a great help to the cause."

Sirius nods along, fake-grateful. He doesn't care, doesn't care! Oh, it's selfish, it's selfish, but they need the sword, need it, need it, Regulus said so.

Arthur clears his throat. They all jump, having forgotten his presence.

"Well," he pushes his glasses upwards, gives an odd sort of hiccup, "er, wouldn't it be best to let the children decide?"

That's it. That's it. Finally playing along nicely. The Order. The revolution.

Falling into place.

"Arthur!"

He nods, dizzily. Rubs his nose. "Only Fred and George, I suppose...the others are too young. And Percy, too, but I daresay he won't go for it."

Remus smiles at last. "Good," he says, shaking both their hands, Molly's still half-hearted, "that's great news."

"They'll be round again for christmas. If you want to drop by then."

Molly clutches Arthur's hand too tight. Too tight. Waves them off with a forced grin.

They don't mind. No, no, why would they? They've got what they need.

Children of the Order. The Revolution.)

x.

Hermione's drawing out her plans.

(The Revolution)

She's bringing Dean along with her, and anyone else she can find. The scraps, the outcasts. Got to get out of this fucking cottage, though, this nowhere-town for people without identities.

Andromeda and Ted. Dean's mother. Sugary-sweet. Honey and apples and pretty cherries on top. Not her real parents. No matter how hard they try. Nothing like -

She'll get them back though, you'll see. End of the war. When the war comes crashing down into pieces, when they are freed. She'll get them back.

It was all for their own good, you see. All for their own good.

God, she has to get out of this town!

x.

an interlude  
  
("Let me carve you a smile," the woman hums under her breath, shakes the tendrils of black hair off of her neck, "we'll make it red, shall we?"

Her body is white. White as snow, with the occasional black-and-blue-and-purple bruise. Faint and fresh scars.

She is like a ghost -

And she lowers the knife. Sharp. Too sharp. Bellatrix likes it blunt. She prises apart his lips.

"I could do it with magic," she says, "but I suppose - "

In it goes. Pricks his tongue - no, no, she must keep that intact! Needs it to spill out all those secrets! - And cuts his lip. In it goes, in it goes.

It is poised. He does not make a move. does not scream. She charmed him not to.

It's more fun that way.

"I suppose," she says, eyes flickering madly, "a mudblood like you would prefer it if I - "

Closer and closer. He grinds his teeth on the metal. Makes a whimper.

She loves the first incision.

"Did it the old fashioned way," she finishes, holds it to the corner of his jaw. Laughs. Laughs and laughs. "tell me where it is, Unspeakable."

She is deathless, godless. She haunts and she tortures. Always on the edge, the edge, the very brink -

Let him free, won't she? Let him free?

Not until she knows. She has to know. has to do what's asked of her. For him, for him.

Always for him.

"It's - " her blade twists. There are tears falling from his eyes now. Saturating the ground. "I'll get it out of you."

Cuts the flesh. He squeals like a pig. Not too deep. Got to keep him alive. That's what the dark lord wants. That's what she'll do.

"But for now," she likes to make them dance, likes to see the blood on the knife, "how about that _smile_?")

x.

"Mr Weasley."

Tight lipped smile. Severus Snape and Amycus Carrow. Never good, never good.

Fred wonders if they've figured out he did the prank and he also wonders why they'd care.

He supposes if they did - hypothetically, of course - that George would be there too, and so rules it out as an option.

"As I'm sure you're aware," Snape begins, (and oh, isn't he the most murderous epitome of politeness?) "there has been an inquiry at this school. It follows the tragic death of one of our students."

He rolls out the word 'tragic' with no empathy whatsoever.

"We're questioning all students. Mandatory, obviously. You simply happened - " he looks at him with disdain, "to be up next on the list."

Amycus grins his filthy yellow grin and produces a vial of clear blue liquid. "Can I give it to him now?"

Snape leans back in his seat, face emotionless. "Only a few drops. We ran out last time. My stock is...limited."

Amycus nods, inches his grubby fingers nearer to Fred's throat.

"This'll make you spit it out," he tips Fred's head back forcefully, "whatever you're hiding, boy - "

He laughs throatily, watches the liquid squirm down Fred's throat.

"Now," Snape adjusts his papers nonchalantly, "would you like to begin, Mr Weasley?"

"No."

Fred blurts it out before he can stop it. Like a bubble escaping his mouth. Popping out and floating in the air.

Snape ignores it. "Were you involved in the murder of Domnall Nathair?"

"No."

"Where were you on the night of Mr Nathair's..." he laces his fingers together, "demise?"

Fred pauses. "In the Great Hall. Then in the Gryffindor Common Room. Then in the boy's dormitory."

Telling the truth! Never so easy, never so easy! Not counting the lump in his throat and the sweat building up on his palms, not counting the spit on his tongue when it moves without question.

"Are you protecting anyone to do with Mr Nathair's murder?"

"Nope," he pops the p, stares Snape down, "am I free to go now?"

"No," Amycus says suddenly, violently, "I have some more questions, actually."

Snape starts, turns to his colleague angrily and shakes his head. "Professor Carrow, I believe we are finished - "

"Where's the boy?" Amycus leans in close, breath stinking of rotting substances, eyes swollen and red, "where is he?"

Fred bites his tongue. Red-raw, red-raw. Snape is watching him closely. They're both watching him now, watching and waiting. "Which boy?"

His answer is innocent. Hopefully unassuming. Enough to get him by.

"You know which boy," he's aggravated now, more so than usual, ready to pop a vein, "the chosen - "

The door slams open. Professor McGonagall strides in, windswept and fragile. "There's been another," her voice cracks and trembles, her cheeks are stained red, "another found dead."

x.

an interlude

(Here is the victim. Her name is - oh, sorry, _was_ \- Maria. Half-blood. They always list the blood type in murders, don't they?

Pale. Stiff like a doll. China legs and rosy cheeks. Unblinking blue eyes. Look at her. Gorgeous, isn't she?

Of course. They don't particularly care about her. Her family supported The Revolution. Filthy fucking blood traitors, that's what they were and maybe she deserved -

Don't say it. Don't say it. _Don't fucking say it_ -

But it's a tragedy. A tragedy for publicity, too. Too many countries getting all meddled up in their business. In their affairs. Scared to fight the Dark Lord, but dumb enough to try, perhaps, to try?

They can't have that. They can't have that at all.

But it's all confusing, see, because there's no trail of blood and breadcrumbs, no shotgun-blow to the back of the head. No link between the two. Not that they can see. Not that they can see.

There are so many murderers running around nowadays, oh, it's hard to keep track!)

x.

Andromeda has a vast collection of books. Strange, for someone in hiding. Shelves upon shelves of them, muggle and magical. Neatly ordered and alphabetical, collecting dust and just begging to be read.

It's a good thing, isn't it, that Hermione has time on her hands? Would be fate, if she believed in it. If she didn't rely on logic.

So she holes herself up in her room. Educational purposes, she informs Andromeda (who of course, is delighted) only right, seeing as she didn't get the chance to finish Hogwarts properly, seeing as she was stolen away.

x.

an interlude

(Back on the run again. Away from her son. Away from Harry. Doing nothing. Passing time. Trying to figure out everything at once.

And the locket. The beating heart underneath the floorboards. Playing tricks on her mind.

Waiting until Christmas. The clocks tick all at once. They tick and tick and beat against her skull like crashing tides. The sword. All for a goddamn sword.

Won't work, the voice taunts, won't work, won't work.

And. And. That's only one. One, two. Ring and the locket. How many more? Four. Four, that's it! Four until they're free, four until the madness ends.

See, she has to focus on the positives. On the positives. He won't find them. They won't be found, won't be caught. Harry is safe, Harry is _safe_ \- )

x.

They don't call him back for questioning. Don't enquire about the whereabouts of Harry. Fred is swept away with the other shards of glass, hidden under the carpet.

Maria, Maria. They called her Maria.

Her body is shipped back home by the Hogwarts Express. A few of her friends cry, wail, let the tears streak down their face and the noises howl out from their mouths.

Fred leans close to George. They don't tear their eyes away.

They'd blame it on You-Know-Who, if they could. They would, they would. If it weren't random, if it weren't to a valuable (worthy) boy and an expendable girl.

"There is no link," Carrow says, and they can tell, they can tell, he thinks it's all quite trivial, "but we will find which one of you did this."

No link. No link. Hear him? They'll find the culprit. Find the bastard -

Hogwarts is infected. Infected and rotting. It oozes death and blood and torture wherever they go. No link? There's one right there.

x.

an interlude

(_Here is something you were lied to about_: that Domnall Nathair's family supported the Dark Lord.)

x.

There are torn pages and scribblings all over her bed. She'll find them halfway through the night, switch on the lights and start her notes all over again.

Yes, yes, she's discovering quite some useful things. Bits and pieces of ripped-paper knowledge. Words and more words swirling in her brain, black ink and the smell of -

Parchment.

Her wand is fizzing, with excitement, with anger. She's learnt all sorts and kinds of spells, not just the memory charms now, not just the ones to make things disappear. Maybe enough to reclaim them, maybe enough to protect her (and them, of course, and them) from everything out there, from everyone.

It's a big, bad world out there. Scary. But she's learning, she's learning and she's going to defend them all, going to protect them.

Going to end this suffering.

x.

an interlude 

("I hope I'm not interrupting." the voice is smooth. It echoes off the walls.

Collectively, the European Wizardry Parliament turn to face their intruder.

And the jaws are hanging open now. Eyes widening in shock. bulging out of their faces, pale and grey-ish and sick.

"Please," Pius Thicknesse says, gesturing to an empty chair, "have a seat."

The Dark Lord takes his place. Twists his thin, cruel mouth into a smirk.

"I'm here for business," he says, lazily drawing his wand and setting it upon his desk, "not pleasure."

Scattered looks. Frantic. What to do, What to do?

"I'm afraid," he says, distastefully, "that support for me in Europe is not as strong as I would have hoped."

They shake their heads. Nod them. They follow his movements. Shrink back in their seats.

"I think an arrangement can be made. You will stay out of my affairs."

He curls his fist.

"You will not try anything foolish. You will continue to trade with and fund Britain. You will search for Harry Potter within your countries. You will let myself and my..." his lips turn upwards, briefly, "political party remain in power."

He stands up again. There is violence dripping from his tongue. Blood, threatening to be spilt, to be felt.

The French Minister of Magic is the first to react. First to speak. Forces words out of his closed-up throat. "We refuse," his accent is broken, glasses lopsided, "we refuse your offer and we would like you to leave, if you please."

"I'm sorry to hear that." Hiss. Hiss. Hiss. Hear the drum pounding. Building up and up into a crescendo -

"Arrest him," the French Minister twitches as he speaks, shakes his finger at the Dark Lord and tries for their support, "he needs to be locked away, needs to be taken and - "

_Flash!  
_  
Sparks and smoke. Green light. Jade-green. They know the words. Know them off by heart. Breathe them in their sleep and hope they'll never hear them.

He stops ticking. Stops twitching. The French Minister's heart ceases to beat.

'Oh god,' they think, and pray He cannot hear them, 'oh god, oh god, oh god - '

"I'm sorry for the inconvenience," flick of the wand, hiss of his snake, "though I'm sure you'll be able to cover it up."

Nagini slithers around them, ready to devour. Begins the exhumation.

"You'll find a contract and a quill upon your desk." His fingers tap against his wand. "I'd like you to sign it. or you could line up and face the same fates. I don't particularly care."

He smiles his ugly, scarred smile. "You're all very replaceable."

They pick up their quills.)

x.

"Fred," George's gaze is fixated on the ceiling, head laid back upon his pillow, "I think I've found a place."

Fred pauses. "Place for what?"

"You know," George tosses his ball - a model of a golden snitch - in the air and catches it deftly, "a place."

Lee looks at them both, sits up in his position. "For our, uh, Revolution?"

See? It's their name. It's their code. Spreading and leaking. They're everywhere.

"Yeah," George smiles faintly, scratches his nose, "you know when I set off that bludger in Filch's office last week?"

They nod, Lee more eagerly than Fred.

"Well, I was looking for a place to hide and I was on the seventh floor and I just - " he looks confused, maybe awed, for half a second, "I just kinda...thought, you know? Like, 'I wish there was a place to hide' kinda thought. And then this bloody massive door appeared - "

"A _door_?"

George stretches back, grins. "Knew this school was crazy. Anyway, when I get inside, it's full of all this shit - this great, massive pile of junk, more than one, even. And I hide behind it for, like, an hour until I'm sure Filch is gone."

"You think we can use this spot?" Fred's impressed. Perky, even. Slap some pom-poms on him and call him a cheerleader. "For Revolution-y stuff?"

They're underground. Alternative. Got their own place now, building up their ranks and preparing for war. They're not just kids, not just kids -

"That's genius!" Lee looks excited, practically falls off his bed with glee. "We can use it to hide from the Carrows, practice spells, do all that stuff - "

"Yeah," George looks pleased with himself, goes a little red around the ears, "I was thinking that."

Maybe they'll be safe, now.

x.

an interlude  
  
("We have the Veritaserum."

Barty Crouch. Looking pale, standing at the door. Oh, sorry, there's a _junior_ in there somewhere.

She pouts. Her lips are so red. Red like blood. "But it's more fun this way."

"He's half-dead, Bellatrix." He looks sick. Will he be sick? All over her nice new carpet?

The Unspeakable grunts. He is so beautifully bruised. Her little puppet. Her little warrior. Refusing to divulge anything, anything.

"For it down his throat then," she waves her hands - bitten, raw, bitten, raw - and lets him get to it.

Barty steps forward. Liquid in hands. It's so blue. Blue like the ocean. Blue like the seaside, like the smell of salt in the air. "Will we kill him, afterwards?"

She pauses. Smiles. "Depends," she licks her lips. Her tongue is dark red. "Will we have more _fun _with him?"

The Unspeakable whimpers. Barty goes closer. The liquid swirls in the vial. The light from the windows burns and scorches.

The Unspeakable lunges to the left. Picks up the goblet with scarred wrists and shaking hands. He smashes it.

Bellatrix draws her wand, but it is too late.

He picks up the glass. His lungs are made of dust. he smiles. He smiles. He holds the broken glass to his trembling, white throat and -

Crash!

He chokes. But not by her. There are red lines running down him. Staining him. "The light," he forces out, and there is blood, blood on his tongue, bubbles of it frothing in his mouth, "the - "

Death overtakes him. Crushes him free of mortal coil.

He flops down dead. And alone. But he always was.

"Well," Barty looks on, disinterested, "he's no use to us now. Our Lord will be furious."

"Do you think i have displeased him?" She snarls, barks like a dog, eyes rabid and angry. "I have not! I would never! Allow me to prove it. I'll find the prophecy, I'll find it and then you'll be begging his apologies."

She would never she would never she would never -

"The Department of Mysteries is a vast place, Bellatrix," Barty grows weary. There is blood everywhere. It's quite the nuisance. "Are you so foolish as to think you can invade it?"

"I will," and she is like a ghost. So very fleeting. "I can, I will. You'll see. You'll see."

He'll _love_ her - )

x.

"Dean," she tugs at his arm. She has something to show him. It's important. So important. Could change the world. That's all she wants, to change the world. "Dean, I've figured it out."

He looks up. Blinks. "Figured what out?"

Hermione sighs. It's obvious, it's obvious, why can't he see it? "About - "

She drops her voice. They're in the other room. Andromeda and Ted and Yvette Thomas. "You-Know-Who."

He jumps, startled, and nearly spills his tea. "What about him? Is this the, uh," he takes upon the same whisper as her, "whole 'rebellion' thing?"

"Yes!" Oh, she's excited now, so dreadfully, awfully excited. "I've figured it out. Look - "

She tosses him the book.

"They call it a horcrux," she's got the word underlined, red pencil, "and I think it's how he's still alive - "

"Why nobody can kill him?"

Her eyes are shiny. Bright. "Yeah. I heard Tonks say it, once. I think the Order knows."

"Are they doing anything?" Dean shakes his head, lays the book back upon the table. "To you know, get rid of them?"

"I don't think it's that easy," but she's angry, as angry as him, angrier, got rage pulsating through her veins, "I think they're hard to find."

He nods. Swallows. "So that's how we kill him," he says.

She lets out a breath. "Yeah," she says, "that's how we kill him."

x.

an interlude

(Same dream. Over and over. Same dream.

A door. A black door. Chambers and -

An archway?

Long fingers splayed out over the brown wood.

And screams. The screams. A woman's scream.

Harry's getting scared.)

x.

They're gathering them up. Got about ten so far, off their silver tongues and natural charms. It's nice how they're all bonded over hatred.

Even the little ones - the timid, the stutterers - have been approaching him, swearing their undying loyalty. The infantry, the foot soldiers.

Oh, he's sorry for the metaphors, but it is a war, after all. He's got to find his fun somehow!

Jokes about death are his new low - if it's possible. Big new rock bottom, no way up. Living on satire and bleak humour until he dies, baby.

Quite soon, with the chances.

The Weasley brothers, making names for themselves as the world's least funny comedians!

They've got it planned out, once it ends. They'll run a joke shop, bring some cheer into people's lives. Nobody smiles, anymore. He'd like to make them smile.

But it's got to end, first. There has to be some spectacular finish to it. A bang, an explosion! He's read the books, the comics, there's always a finale. A battle, maybe, with drawn wands and curses and death. Dead enemies, lined up in neat little rows, black blood, charred faces. Smirks and sneers still lingering.

Or an assassination, perhaps, a wand to the skull and realisation too late. The coward's way out, he thinks. A duel, yes, that's the way to go about it, opposite ends and then a flash of the wand and all that power concentrated into one. All that power. Until someone drops down dead, of course, and then the war is lost or won.

Harry Potter. Somehow all links into him. Fred can't imagine Harry ever going up against You-Know-Who. There's no sense of victory around the boy, only frailty, really, and a prophecy that says he could be the saviour. Their saviour.

Except he's not doing very much bloody saving is he?

No, just hiding and praying, like the rest of them. Perfectly ordinary boy. What is it, Fred wonders, that makes him so special?

That makes him irreplaceable, where they all are not?

Harry's trying not to die. They're trying not to let him die and they're trying not to die themselves, the common masses, clinging onto everything they can to stop it happening. And they're trying to win a war, trying to stop injustice and muggleborn murder and this corrupt government -

They're trying, they're trying. Same old excuses, nothing done. He knows, he knows. It's all part of his comedy routine.

Fred doesn't dream in colour anymore.

x.  
  
diary entry number thirty seven

Tom what's happening? What's happening to me?

Everything's fragile. Everyone's dying. It's not just the mudbloods, Tom, it's everyone. And they don't know what -

It could be anyone. Any of us. I think it's me. I think it'll be me next. I think I'm going to die.

Father won't take me out of Hogwarts. He says it's nothing to be concerned with. He says the Dark Lord would fix it if it were.

He says the Chamber has been opened before.

Do you know? What it is?

I'm scared. It's coming for me. I can feel it. Whatever it is, I can feel it. It's swallowing me up -

Tom. Why won't you write back, Tom? You're supposed to write back. My diary. You're supposed to write back.

I need to talk to someone. Someone smart.

Someone who understands.

Why won't you write back? You need to talk to me!

I can feel it. I can feel it -

_It'll be me next_.)

x.

There is a process in which one creates a horcrux.

And the very idea is giving her nightmares. A parasite on the back of her mind. Grabbing and tormenting her, bloody and horrific and oh god, make it stop, make it stop -

**Step One: The Horrible Act.**

The act of murder. Spilling the blood straight from the vein. Green light, green light. Stopped heartbeats and the smell of smoke. Smoke? Yes, yes, the stench of death, corrupting the lungs like dust and...dust and...

**Step Two: Division.**

Cell Division. Apoptosis. Split your soul in halves and quarters and never look back. The pain will be blinding, yes, but you'll get used to it. They all do in the end.

And you'll be scarred. Beauty _wrecked_. No room for vanity in the world of slaughter. You'll be half a human being, oh and you'll look it! It's like they say. Only the monsters are immortal. Only you.

**Step Three: The Consumption.**

Remember the corpse? Remember it? Oh, of _course you do_! It's time to consume. To be consumed. To bind you - and them and it - to the ground, to the Earth, where you will stay. Where you will stay, perhaps, forever.

Swallow up their death. Now go on then_, do it_! Feel the pain you wreaked upon them, feel the bloody end, the cliff you pushed them off and the waves that swallowed them whole. You're teetering, yes, that's right, teetering! Near the end. Near the end. So close, so close -

And dragged back up again. Have you felt it yet? Felt their pain? Not quite, not quite. This is what you did to them. This is how you ripped them open. This is how you stole a soul.

It's okay. It's okay. Wait until you get to the next part. The reason why they call it 'consumption.'

Don't worry! It's _metaphorica_l. You don't have to ingest their flesh. Not physically, not physically. Can you feel them, in your mouth? Can you feel the copper of blood? The screams they made? The pain, the suffering, the taste of decay?

That's it. Sucked up inside of you. Coiled and tight, cold sweat and fear. Pounding against your ribcage. Their death. Your perpetuity. Forever and ever. Here are the fragments of your grief. Here are the fragments of your remorse. You are not a human. Not any more.

You are broken bits of glass and deformed limbs and all the ugly things we cast away to sea. You are not living, you are not dead. You are caught between the middle of both phenomena, you are a rarity. You are a beast. But you are powerful. And that's what you wanted. To be powerful. There is electricity humming and crackling through your bruises. There is strength locked away in your bones.

Your weaknesses have been put away for now. The segments of your soul. Out of order.

And they are inside of you. They are still inside of you. The lucky ones: the oblations, what was lost to begin fresh anew. To anoint, to bless, to allow you to be reborn. They are still inside of you.

So it is time. It is time. For the exorcism. No. That's not what it's called. The Anchoring. Yes, that's it!

**Step Four: The Anchoring.  
**  
Pick your object. Living or dead. Gold or lead, doesn't matter, doesn't matter! Something important, perhaps. Something of value.

It'll be your cracks. The flaws in your skin, the jagged scars that piece you together. Remember, you are not a human. You are bits of mismatched souls, a man built of sins. This'll be your lifeline. This will be your weight.

It is you, in a purer form, your horcrux. It is you, splintered into fragments and hidden away.

You won't let them find it will you? You won't let them?

You have to promise. You have to promise or you can't do the next part.

The good part.

Here is the portion of your soul. Here is it's case. It's lining. The layer of protection, the insurance between you and fate. One tug, remember, one tug and it could all come crashing down.

But let's not worry about that.

It'll be part of you. Always. And it will have something of yours; a crooked-smile, a twinkle of the eye, a ghost of your voice. It is you. It is what you once were, it is something that made you human. It is you. It is you.

**Step Five: The Aftermath. **

Here is your immortality. Don't bother about enjoying it. It will last forever, after all.

Damage is permanent. Nothing comes without a price and yours is paid in disfigurement and depravity. Look at you! You are a beast, teeth and claws and blood of the innocent; (smearing the sides of your mouth smearing - ) unlovable, unloved. Can you feel? Can you feel at all? What is it like, to be half a person?

Is it coursing through your veins yet? Your deathlessness? Your infallibility?

It will be soon. It will be.

Do not worry. Do not worry. You are everything and nothing, all at once. You are indestructible, so much more than what you once were!

The process is complete. Have your fun. Spill your blood. Waste your long life on the trade of pain for pleasure!

Here is the last catch: (but, as suspected, you do not care) you must abandon your sorrows.

To feel grief is your unwinding. Regret is fatality. Love is mercy and mercy is weakness, oh, but you know all of this already!

Congratulations are in order of course, for escaping it all. Suffering and the mortal coil. Revel in your sins. Go on, _go on_!

You are unbreakable, unstoppable, glorious beauty and wonderment.

Here we shall end. You have everything needed, after all.

Hermione leans over the toilet bowl.

The sick leaves an acrid taste in her mouth.

x.

an interlude 

(_What's in his head?_

Draco doesn't know himself.

It's all fluff and wires sticking out - places they're not supposed to be - and the red spots. The red spots. Do you understand? No, of course you don't, Nobody does and they think he's going crazy -

He's not, he swears, he's not, he's not!

But there are holes in his head. He has been stripped away. Peeled back. Look at this two dimensional boy. Look at his sense of self. He is barely aware of the world around him.

Eyes half-shut. Struggling to stay awake, the poor boy, the sweet child! It is not his fault. It is not his fault. There are spirits in his soul and his head. They are not his own.

What are the real memories? The real ones, it's hard to tell. It's all so shiny and bright, hard to pick out the fakes.

And the smell of blood is embedded in his fingernails. And there's a noise in the back of his ears, a ringing, like the rattle of a snake's tail, like -

He can hear hearts thumping in his head. He can hear everything. Everything all at once.

If he screws his eyes up tight, he can pretend he is not alive.

No breath. No heartbeat. He likes it this way.

There is emptiness and there is relief. He does not exist. He does not exist.

And then the world jolts him back into reality. People moving. Jostling and bustling to their next lesson. The stench of fear, thick and sweaty, hanging in the air.

And his heart beats again. Too fast, too fast.

He is not like other boys.

Sometimes he stays up all night. He counts the minutes on his tongue and holds his soul close to his chest. He won't let it escape. He counts the days until the train ride home.

His bed at home is safe and warm and soft. It smells like mint. His bed at Hogwarts smells like -

'Oh god. What is that?'

And there are scratch marks down the side of it. He doesn't remember making them. But he never remembers.

Draco does not like to fall asleep.

He doesn't always know. That's why. He doesn't always know what's waiting on the other side.

The amazing act! Draco Malfoy, wonder boy! Limbs move by themselves!

If you listen closely, you can hear the corruption inside his head. The gentle arrhythmia of his heart. Everything is black-black-blackening and nothing is right. Nothing.

But you won't listen closely, of course. because you don't care. Oh, does anybody?

But answer this, answer this:

Where do vanished objects go?

You see, Draco would like to find out.)

x.

"So this is the place?"

There are about fifteen of them, all huddled together in the Room of Requirement. They are little. They are weak. That's about it, really.

George nods, gives a half-hearted smile. "Bit cramped, I think."

On cue, the room begins to gradually expand and Fred swears he sees an extra armchair pop in there somehow.

Longbottom's eyes are wide open, mouth slack-jaw. The rest seem unaffected. They're weary, after all.

"As if by magic," Lee quips and they all roll their eyes. "First order of business?"

Tentatively, Katie speaks up. "We need to protect ourselves. Without getting caught and...tortured."

"I don't care about the torture," Fred says abruptly.

"What's a little torture when students are dying, hey?" It's an almost-joke from George. "I say stuff the Carrows."

Fred nods. "We'll try not to get you hurt," he promises them, but it feels useless, useless. "I wish we had any power over it."

"I think - " Neville trips over his words, blushes a little, "it doesn't matter - um, if they get us. If we protect each other - "

They look at him, surprised.

"Yeah," Katie concedes, eyes bright and misty, "yeah, we've got to protect each other."

"And the others," adds Oliver Wood quickly, "like the First-Years."

"And the others."

"Right," Lee smiles, a genuine smile, and it's a real shock to the system, "let's get to it, shall we?"

x.

an interlude 

(He sees death. Can feel it on his fingertips. Blinding - white-hot - rage on his tongue.

"It hurts," Harry says, because it does, it does.

It feels like his body is being fractured. Chipped away. Like he is dying, slowly but surely, dying in his bed.

He screams. And there is another scream. A woman's scream, it's always a woman's scream, always, always, always.

And in the back of his head, ricocheting off the back of the walls of his skull, there is a shriek. Not a woman's. Barely a human's. Half of a person, shouting into dust and ashes, through Harry and outside him.

Mrs Weasley rushes into his room, red-faced and over-concerned.

He sits up straight in his bed. Blinks. Smiles bright and sunny and wide. "I'm fine," - is there something wrong with his voice? Something wrong? It's all - "only a nightmare."

"Okay." She relents, with a watchful eye. tucks him back up tight. "Okay."

They voices drift. He is back to normal. It never happened. It never - )

x.

She's biting her lip bloody-red, nearly chewing it off. There is a lot. A lot ticking in her skull. All these words, all these ideas. She can feel them in her veins.

Hermione knows.

It's awfully simple to work out, actually, she can't believe she didn't see the signs before, but do forgive her, she's only a muggleborn after all.

Oh, they did a terrible job of hiding it! It? No, no, she apologises, him. Him! They all know his name, they have it tattooed on their lips, stuck like shards of glass in their throats.

Harry Potter. Bundled away and lost in Molly Weasley's cupboards. Harry Potter, saviour of the wizarding world. That's who they've been hiding.

But what will she do? What is there to do? She's only a girl, only little Hermione Granger, outcast and mudblood, barely significant. Dean and her. That's her army.

Confronting the Order, now that's a task. She can't even reach them, stuck out here on the coastline. It would be rude, too, desperately rude, considering they took her in and cared for her, all that they've done for her. All that they've done for her.

Oh god.

It's a dreadful predicament, but they're hiding the key to the end of the war, just storing him away like fine liquor and she'll be damned if she lets that continue, not without obtaining the full explanation behind it. Harry Potter. Chosen One. That's what they all say.

Need to find him. That's what they need. Harry Potter and things will all be over. They need things to be over.

She hasn't worked it out yet. The link between Potter and the horcruxes. Why he's so important, so valuable. It's probably right in front of her, it always is. Potter and the horcruxes. Why does he need to die? Or live? It depends on the ever fluctuating sides of good and evil, she supposes, and the willingness to kill a teenage boy. She certainly wouldn't be opposed.

As a joke! No, she'd never kill and no comment of the sort will ever go in any sort of biography that may come to surface about her after the war. If there is one, of course, not that she expects it...

Well. She won't be forgotten, at least. Won't fade into the background. No, she'll do something, something special. Not for glory, but for justice. For diplomacy, too, and law; all that boring tosh she counts on to get her through the days.

They're long. Too long. She misses her parents. The scratches on her arms and bruises on her legs still have not faded.

She's waiting.

x.  
  
an interlude

(Tom Riddle. Harry Potter. Draco Malfoy.

_Spot the fucking difference.  
_  
You can't! That's the fun of it. You can't! Because they're linked, these helpless, hopeless boys.

And they say bonds between men can - well, they never can be broken.

Don't understand? Look closely. Oh, they've got their blemishes, of course, but they've all got the same broken, barely-beating heart.

Mother that loves - or loved, of course - them too much. Arrogant fathers. Nearly-abandoned and nearly-unloved.

Well. There's a difference between love and worship. A very thin line.

What else, what else?

Oh. They're all worth far more dead.

You'll see, you'll see. You'll like the symmetry. How they all slip through the cracks and bleed and blur into one.

These beautiful boys. Bruised and tortured. Two monsters and a hero. That's what they say, anyway. That's what was prophesied.

It makes for a fascinating study. The effects of being chosen. Coincidences and magical bonds. The male ego: how it affects it's subjects.

If you squint. If you squint, you can see the shadows in their eyes. The dark forces that rope them all together. And Fate, of course, and Fate. Hiding in their clammy hands and shrieking her head off.

Draco. Harry. Tom.

And the links? They're engraved, set in stone. Difficult to break.

_You'll find out soon enough._

Such powerful magics. Such pretty colours they make. The patterns across the ribcage. Oh, to die for.

_What comes next_?)

x.

I don't own Harry Potter.

I've never done this before but...this'll have to be continued in a part 2. It's way too long to just leave as one, and I have about 5000 (? or so ?) words of the next part written. Who knows, maybe I'll need a third part!

I know, I know. This is supposed to be a Fred/Hermione (and also a Harry/Ginny lol) fic. And none of these characters have interacted with each other yet. Yikes. I'm sorry. This turned really general and I got pretty involved with the AU...I couldn't bare to not develop it. I was going to finish off part 2 before posting this, (out of fear of part 2 being disproportionately short) but it's been a really Long Time and I felt like I should post this at least.

Thanks to:

ExpertPlasma - don't worry, I don't normally review stuff either! I'm just too shy! It means a lot that you chose to review this time, I'm glad you enjoyed it.

nerdyninjaunicorn - thank you! I try not to make things stereotypical, but you know :/ it's hard! I'm happy I blew your mind!

moondustandroses - yep! I'll add it to my list, I have some ideas already actually. Thank you for your incredibly kind comments, I really don't deserve them!

Hope and Chocolate - aww, really? Thank you! I try!

Guest - I'm glad you thought so! I think my writing's gotten better over time...looking back on some of my earlier oneshots in this fic really makes me cringe!

Karbear10 - thank you! I wasn't sure if people would like the way it was written lol

Here is the list of pairings I'm going to write, (in order of request) published hopefully soon: another part to this; (or two) ron/hermione, (which I've already started) remus/sirius, rose/scorpius and a pairing of my choosing - I wonder if anyone can guess?

Anyway, I hope you all enjoyed and I'm very sorry for the delay in getting this posted - it's quite long!


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